Pyromane
by Cdragon
Summary: Gambit thinks about and tries to analyze one of his teammates. Gambit's p.o.v Chapter 14 up, Camaraderie. One of the team is in trouble, but he has two to back him up. PS: THIS FIC IS STILL ALIVE!
1. Thought Process Begins

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Pyromane

(French for Pyromaniac)

DISCLAIMER: Don't own X-Men Evo, or specifically Remy, John, or Piotr.

AN: Celebrate! This is my first post in somewhere around two years. Sorry to anyone who may have been a fan of mine. I thought this up earlier today, and it is definitely not complete. I just wanted to post what I already have done. Also, note that this is from Remy's POV, and I did not use any sort of accent. This seems to me a fine way for him to think.

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Remy observes one of his current teammates.

I can hear the now all-too-familiar crackling coming from his room right now. I was on my way down to the kitchen, and the only path is past his room. It's surprisingly clear, the subtle sound of the fire, but that's only because he hasn't latched his door, again. He had a habit of it. I pause for a moment, I can see him through the gap. He's lying on his stomach on the bare floor, parallel to the bed, his head propped up with one hand. His legs are hanging up in the air behind him, crossed as they sway lazily forward and back. In front of him is his altar, a decent-sized slab of stone about an inch thick the Magneto gave him so he couldn't scorch the floor any longer. On the slab, is a small, free-standing fire. It isn't on a candle, there's just the few small pieces of wood crackling as the fire slowly consumes them. He was just lying there watching it. Not touching it with his power, but just admiring it in its raw state. For the moment, it seems better than television to him. He did this a lot, like a ritual. That's why I call the thing an altar. He doesn't call it anything.

I decide to move on before he notices me staring at him and asks the question I wouldn't know the answer to: why? It just seems to be what I do. Observe. That seems to explain a lot about me. I observe, and I gather the kind of information from it that others don't even see.

I keep walking toward my destination, my stomach urging me on. I can still hear the tiny crackle of John's current activity, but it's slowly being replaced by the sounds of my boots tapping along the floor. I'm not sure why, but my mind is drifting back to John. His room comes back to me in complete clarity, as I _have _seen it many times before. The walls are plastered with posters, most of rock bands I'd never heard of but have had to listen to the countless times he decided to blast his stereo. There's a half-empty box of matches, along with several candles, on his nightstand. Clothes are scattered about, though the majority of it is heaped in to corner waiting to be washed. Despite the face the rest of us keep our battle gear in the lockers near the training room, he keeps his flame-thrower at the end of his bed. His lighter it always out of sight, tucked readily in his pocket, but also occasionally makes an appearance of the nightstand.

It seems kind of sad sometimes. He's still, despite his great power and mania, just another average teenage boy under everything. He hasn't broken out of it yet, like myself and the others, though neither me nor Piotr are much older. I've known a lot longer than most people what the world is really like. He's still trapped in his little world of fire, still in his mind the glorious hero Pyro.

The kid really is true to his name. He loves fire as if it were more important than blood, which is strange seeing as how it is, despite his ways of bringing it to "life," still inanimate. He could, and has, talked to a form he's made out of it for hours. I'm not sure if he hears anything back. I think what he can do is too much for his hormone-flooded teen mind. He has complete control over something that should be impossible to control. He has overcome, by natural selection, something that mankind has tried in vain to control for most of their species' existence.

He loves everything about the flame, and he has an almost equal taste for destruction. That's why he's always so giddy whenever he can use his element like that. He just let's his imagination fly in battle and that is exactly what will rise before him to do his bidding. He shouldn't be able to; Hell, he should be sitting around in school still. He should be junior, I think.

But, no, John doesn't go to school. Instead, he sits around whichever current lair we have all day. Half the time, there's not even something so simple as a TV around to keep his overactive brain occupied. He doesn't train, 'cause we all know he already has control, and to him it's just another chore. It all combines to bore him out of his mind. More than likely, boredom is another factor in his mania. He spends all day concocting ways to keep himself occupied, however strange it may be. It usually ends up in much annoyance for the rest of us.

I really wish he did go to school sometimes. He'd probably do great there too. He's a lot smarter than anyone expects him to be. He could easily be in Honors level, especially English. His imagination goes to work a lot into the stories he writes. No one knows he writes, though. I went in to wake him up for training, and during the long time my prodding took to wake him up, I noticed at small notebook sticking out from between the headboard an the mattress. There was still a pen hooked behind his ear. I was curious, so I pulled out the notebook silently, and began flipping through it. I read bits here and there. The story was almost sickeningly romantic, but still, it was surprising good. Especially when factoring in the fact is was written by a psychopath. John jerked suddenly, though, most likely having a nightmare. It startled me enough to stick the book back into its hiding spot, afraid of him waking up and catching me. Confident that it looked like I'd done no wrong, I continued my efforts to make his now-tossing form. Annoyed, I pulled out my Bo staff and finally just started prodding him with it. I'd once had the joy of being woken up by him staring at me and continuously poking my shoulder. I still haven't figured out why; he claimed it was because he wanted to test 'unconventional methods.' After a while, he woke up—I'd sorta resorted to poking him in the forehead—and grudgingly got up. I didn't bother to inform him he now had black ink streaks all over the left side of his face as he raced down to get breakfast still in a T-shirt and boxers. I left, already late for training.

I'm suddenly finding myself in the kitchen, having been so absorbed in thought that I hadn't noticed my progress. My stomach is again demanding I recognize its existence. I walk across the room to the fridge, pulling out the leftovers of my on culinary endeavors two days prior. It seemed I was the only one who found my levels of spiciness at all edible. John and Piotr tried it, graciously enough. It wasn't often anyone but Piotr did actual cooking. We didn't exactly trust John with the stove, sans a few exceptions to make himself Ramen. After one bite of my, to me, masterpiece, John ran out of the room screaming that his tongue was on fire, and "not in the good way." Piotr ate his portion, but I noticed he downed about five times more drink than he usually did. He too left the room with a strange expression on his face. I'm don't know much about Russian cuisine, but I'm guessing it's a lot blander than what I make.

I shove the last serving, still in the plastic tupperware, into the microwave, I sit back and wait for it to heat up. I dared not turn it up too much, after John's demonstration of why you should follow directions. Really, sometimes a person could think he's a genius, but others—he's completely incapable. There was one time he wanted nothing more than a bagel. He managed to blow up the microwave. 

To Be Continued… We learn how he blew up the microwave as Gambit delves into his memories in an attempt to analyze the fire fiend.


	2. From This Point On he's not allowed near...

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Pyromane

(French for pyromaniac)

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Remy makes observations about his fellow teammate.

Disclaimer: I do not own X-Men: Evolution, specifically Remy, John, or Piotr.

AN: Yay! I got reviews! I'm glad people appreciate my non-romance Acolyte fic. I love 'em and all, but gah! Too much Romy! (I agree with ya, ___) It's the new Kurtty. Also, if anyone reads this far and decides they don't like it, flame away! It will make Pyro very happy.

The Bagel Story Continued

(a.k.a. it was the microwave's time)

He'd wanted to toast the damn thing, but they'd been in the freezer and were hard as rocks. He couldn't break it apart to fit into the slots. I told him to defrost it in the microwave, he asked me how. I told him—a couple minutes on (obviously) defrost. I have since gathered he doesn't have the best grasp of 'couple'. 

I was still sitting at the kitchen table for the beginning of his endeavor. I could hear him muttering to himself. _"Okay, 2 minutes…" _He gave the knob a sharp twist—it was an older model that had a dial rather than buttons—I could tell he wasn't really paying attention to it. I knew he didn't notice the 1 before the 2. He also ignored my warnings for what he should put it on. I watched as he set the thing on high. I wish now I'd mentioned it, but I figured at the time that he couldn't do _that _much damage. It would teach him a lesson. Still, a tiny voice in the back of my head told me I should leave the room.

I obliged the instinct and went into the next room to watch TV. Surprisingly, I could still hear him.

"This is the longest two minutes ever…" I couldn't hear the rest of what he said. I glanced at the clock. It had been almost ten minutes. Was the kid _really _that thick? I doubted it, guessing he was just acting that way to amuse himself (that's my theory on why he does most of what he does… It's fun for him to act stupid.). I looked at the clock again. Eleven minutes. Why did I have such a sense of foreboding. I watched it. _30 seconds…_ Maybe I should go stop him? _20_ _seconds…_ Why am I afriad? _15…_ Too late now, unless… _10…_ No, I'm not Quicksilver, can't run that fast… _5…_ Wait! Shouting! _4…_ But would he listen? _3…_ Shit. _2…_ He's gonna kill himself somehow, I know it. _1…_ Too late now.

BOOM!

A loud explosion erupted from the kitchen. It was followed by an equally loud shriek. I jumped up from my position on the sofa and went to see what exactly he'd done. The hallway was filled with black smoke. Going into the kitchen, I saw that room was coated in black as well. Soot clung to everything that wasn't charred anyway. Shrapnel littered the floor. John was standing in the middle of the room, looking at where the microwave had been. He, too, was black with soot, and some pieces of the door reflected the overhead light in his hair.

"So _that's _what all that shaking meant…" he said to himself.

"Mon Dieu!" I couldn't help but yell at him. "What the hell d'you do?"

"It was taking too long," he said matter-of-factly. "I turned on the oven settings too." It was a microwave _oven _after all.

"Homme, it was taking so long 'cause you put it on 12 minutes!"

"Ooh…" He suddenly got a look on his blackened face of complete understanding.

I knew it was futile to continue ranting on to him. Besides, he'd known it was coming. The table had been turned on its side like a shield.

"Clean this up," I found myself pinching the bridge of my nose. I felt a headache coming on. Stress plus thick, ominous black smoke were most likely the causes. I started to leave the room, but I stepped on one of the larger pieces of shrapnel. It made a soft 'Ding!' sound as I removed my foot from it. Behind me, I heard John chuckling.

"Guess my bagel's done."

Like I said, he's incapable. Still, when he's not being so manic, he can make you think. He's okay to talk to sometimes. In conversation, he'll bring up some obscure point that actually is tied to the topic. It gets shrugged off during the converation as just a fleeting point, but hours later I've found myself about to go to sleep when it suddenly pops back into my head. It's always something that makes you think. John just has that talent. No matter what he does it makes you think. It's either about some point he made, or trying to figure out how the hell he can pass hours staring at a single spot on the ceiling. Weird kid.

Something just chimed. The microwave we currently have is newer and digital, but for some reason, the done chime sounds like a strangled mouse, a deranged sort of squeak. My food's done. I get up and take it out, shifting it from hand to hand as I walk the few steps back to the table. It's rather hot to the touch. I take one bite, and suddenly I realize just how hungry I am. I down everything quickly and get back up to raid the pantry. I don't feel like anything that takes preparation right now. Especially something that needs heating. I'm currently convinced that I burned my thumb on the plate minutes ago. The most promising thing I pull out is a bag of chips. Luckily, it's still unopened, meaning it hasn't gone stale like some of the other snacks present before me.

Special thanks to all who reviewed (so far):

faeryeyes

Pyromaniac (I'm a huge fan)

keika

Niteflite

Scurvy Kat

Street Wise Girl

Dreams of Magic


	3. Mutant Interaction

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Pyromane

(French for pyromaniac)

Disclaimer: Don't own X-Evo or any of the Acolytes, as much as it depresses me. Where do you think I got the inspiration for Zane?it will be understood later in the story, and no, it's not an OC, so do not fear

AN: Thanks for the reviews. I'm sorry it's taken so long to post this. I've been on a mad cleaning spree. I'm evil for making people wait. Bad me. The next chapter will be here soon though! And, this chapter _is _the longest yet! Don't hate me! I have two other Acolyte stories going. Gee, I sound desperate.

Beloved, beloved chips. I'll admit, that must sound weird, but I am truly hungry right now, and these definitely hit the spot. Albeit, I don't usually jump at the opportunity for salt and vinegar potato chips, but anything else in that cupboard—well, let's just say I'd be running a high risk of pulling out something blue and fuzzy, and I ain't talking about any of the X-Men.

My hunger finally suppressed, I again turn my attention to the table. On it is a couple newspapers from today—one local, one national. I take a look at the local headline:

"BAYVILLE PRINCIPAL EDWARD KELLY APPEALS TO SHOOL BOARD FOR NEW SAFETY LAWS REGARDING MUTANT ATTENDEES"

Right beneath the headline is a picture of said principal, next to which is a pull-quote of his, reading, "Regardless of moral issues, mutants are still highly dangerous weapons. We don't allow handguns in our schools, why allow mutants?"

I wonder how much trouble with the boss I'd get into if I went and blew up this idiot's car. Better yet, it's one more reason we should send Johnny there. Two days would pass and we'd see the administrative section in flames on the front page instead of this anti-mutant bullshit. And really, it wouldn't reflect badly on those more evolved. Any delinquent can get his hands on a lighter. It would only be negative for the image of pyromaniacal, sociopathic teenagers. And Australians, John already seems to have a good enough record that he's adding fire-crazed to the local stereotype. Or at least, that's what John said one of the police officers screamed at him the last time he was caught fleeing after torching someone's shed.

I glance at the national paper. The headline on that reads that nationwide anti-mutant rallies have caused property damage and traffic. What about how those rallies make any self-respecting mutant feel? Looking farther down the front page, I have my answer. There's a small blurb about a suicide. A mutant suicide. My eyes flashing over the article, I catch enough to not bother reading the rest, having gathered enough to feel sickened. The two words that stood out were "Good riddance!" I shake my head. Humans.

I turn back to the first newspaper, the _Bayville Daily Edition_, to distract my self from the disturbing knot my stomach has become. I do my best to avert my gaze from the headline article. One of the smaller front-page articles was a tale of an abandoned building mysteriously burning down. I read the first paragraph and turn several pages to the continued the tale. Apparently police contribute the blaze to _"…the same perpetrator suspected in a string of arsons in the Westchester County area."_

John's been out again.

__

"The true identity of this individual is unknown, but eyewitnesses having seen the individual leaving the scene of the crime have described him as male Caucasian, between 15 and 25 years old, blond or red-haired. He was wearing black pants, a red sweatshirt, and wore a blue baseball cap. While the start of the blaze was not witnessed, the individual seemed to take particular delight in the blaze…"

The article went on to say that witnesses seemed to have seen unexplainable shapes and figures in the flame. Many in the area also heard what was described as "cackling."

Funny, I've always thought of his laugh of that of the stereotypical insane-person laugh. Cackling makes him sound like a witch.

I apparently got myself very involved in the paper. I didn't notice the flamer himself come bounding into the kitchen. Until, of course, there was the sudden sound of him scraping the floor as he pulled the chair opposite me out. He sat with the chair turned backwards so he could lean his arms against the back as he stared at me. I sit glaring at him over the edge of my newspaper. I'm already upset from the main article, not to mention he almost blew our cover, again. Also, I for one don't like to be interrupted.

"What is it?" I ask. He's still just staring. Does this kid never blink?

"Hey, Rem?" I hate it when he calls me that. For one thing, my name is _Remy_, not _Rem_. Is the extra syllable that hard for him? Second, I like it much better if he calls me Gambit. But _no_… I'm Rem to him.

"What?" I growl again.

"Can I ask you a favor?"

"I'm listening." I have now the bored/disinterested tone to my voice. Also, I have a bad, bad feeling. He's using the innocent voice.

"Could you drive me to the store?"

__

This was what he bothered me for?

"Go ask Piotr,"

"I tried. He was drawing something again. I asked, he yelled for me to leave him alone, and threw a pencil with disturbing accuracy at my head. Then he yelled something else, but it was Russian. He either threatened me, insulted me, or swore because I was not impaled by said pencil."

Okay… Long explanation. Allow me to mention that he managed to say all that in about four seconds. He could give the boss's son a run for his money.

On the one hand, maybe Petey had the right idea. I'm in the kitchen, surrounded my knives… Well, they're on counter by the sink, but one would get the idea.

"Fine," I say instead. Using that crazy thing called logic, I decide that a drive would do me good. Distract me from the depression that is American news.

We have to go all the way back to my room, on the complete opposite side of the base, before actually going to the car. To be completely honest, I haven't got a clue where I left my keys. It seems like a logical place to start. He really didn't have to, but he followed me all the way, humming something I don't recognize. I spend several minutes trying to find the keys. I only ever use the motorcycle, so I never remember where the car keys are. Of course, after my room-wide search, it turned out I'd stowed them in one of the pockets in my coat.

Feeling decidedly stupid, he and I both head back across the fortress (really, what should I call this place?) to the garage. I spend a moment trying to find the right key. We have three identical cars here. I have a key for each on the ring, so I don't know which one is which all the time. Again, I never really use the cars. I'm a motorcycle man.

Upon determining the right key, I finally am able to open the import. I lower myself in and manage to start the car without having to go through another guess-and-check process with the keys. He hops in the other side quickly. He hasn't said anything the whole time since he asked me to give him a ride, but he's still humming that same song. It's really grating on my nerves. I try my best, somewhat successfully, to ignore it. In fact, I didn't notice when he said something.

"Remy, ya listening?"

"What?" It was only then that I noticed anything.

"I _said_," He sounded quite indignant about being ignored "Thanks again for the ride."

"Cela m'est égal."

I noticed in my peripheral that he was giving me a strange look.

"English, mate."

"Sorry. It's nothing."

He nodded.

In truth, I really didn't mind driving him. It was something to do. I'm sure he'd go himself—he's 17 and therefore old enough—but he has yet to pass a driving test. He's tried twice and failed. He's reckless in life, but it's even more disturbing when he's behind the wheel. I drove with him once when he had his permit. I honestly thought it was my last day on Earth. I feel I should mention that from then on it's been Piotr's task. After the whole tractor incident, I know he'd survive.

"Hey, Remy."

I snapped out of my thoughts.

"You do realize you're going the wrong way, don't you?"

"_Merde._"

I turned the car around, and with John pointing directions out as I was about to make any other wrong turns, we eventually made it to the store. It was just an average supermarket, like Shaw's or Stop & Shop, only it was a different local strain, Quick-Stop Groceries. 

John was next to me, freeing himself from the confines of the seatbelt.

"Gambit'll be here," I said as he opened the door. Halfway through climbing out, he stopped.

"You aren't coming?"

"Should I be?"

"Um, I kinda need you to buy something for me."

I grumble some words of minor annoyance under my breath and climb out.

We walk into the store in silence. Just past the first set of automatic doors, I find myself needing to push the sunglasses further up my nose. The close-circuit camera had a screen just above the second doors. At first glance, I'd looked up to be met with my own red-on-black eyes staring back at me. The camera was at just the right angle to view past the glasses.

Through the second set of doors, I smirk. The woman who had been behind us was giving me a very confused look. I guess she'd viewed the camera shot as well.

"I'll meet up with ya in a minute, 'kay, Rem?"

I hadn't been paying attention to the John at the moment, but I managed to catch what he said. Only he would drag me in here so he could run off.

I move on through the store. Pass the time, pick up some more snack food… I wonder if Petey wanted anything. I'll grab him the usual—he loves the giant Hershey bars, the 7 o.z. things. The bars are small enough to fall into the five-finger discount category. With something in mind, I head down toward the candy aisle.

Aisle 7—it's paradise for any sugar aficionado. Half of the left side of the aisle is the small stuff one would get with the miniature shovels that they sell by the pound. The other half is the pre-packaged stuff. It's here where I wander to get Piotr's stuff. It's here that is my favorite part of the store. I myself love the Hershey brand. I see nothing wrong with still loving a good candy bar, even if I am a grown man. Well, 19, at least. I grab a few of the goodies—two Hershey bars and one of the giant Caramellos (another personal favorite). I quickly scan my surroundings. There aren't any other customers watching. The camera is in a stage of its scan facing away from me. I take the moment to slip the goods into one of the many pockets of my duster.

"G'day, Rem. I see you've taken to a bit of light shopping yourself, eh?"

I jump. Where the hell did he just come from?

"I just wanted to tell you, they got a new shipment o' Hoyle cards for you to clear out. Thought you'd like to know in case the boss has any missions planned he hasn't told us about yet."

With my heart still futilely trying to slow down, I nod to him in thanks. He goes bounding off again. I wonder what in the world it is that he came here for. The only thing he had just then was a bag of chips he'd already started eating.

I continue up the other side of the aisle. This side is more odds-n-ends items. There are some cheap toys, candles, greeting cards, school supplies, and books.

I stop again and grab a package of expensive, quality-looking pencils from the school supplies section, yet another gift for the comrade. I'm actually amazed at how considerate I'm being today. Not that I'm selfish or anything (we have Quicksilver for that), but I usually only steal things for myself. I'd probably get something for my other true teammates at the rate I'm going, but John's shopping for himself, and somehow I think that Vic would take offense to a stuffed mouse.

I pull off another simple steal as the camera pans away before moving on. I pass the racks of cheap murder mysteries and gushy romance novels. I really do think that some of John's work should be displayed there. It's just the kind of genre he writes 90 percent of the time.

I've actually been catching up on most of the Saint's work. He'd kill me if he ever found out. I'm still the only one who knows he writes, and he doesn't know that I know. I hate the sickening romance, but it's interesting, there's just the novelty because it's written by someone I know.

His latest work is different from most of his stuff. It still involves romance, but it's nowhere near so prominent. It's not so fairy tale-like. It's about some guy named Zane that's in love with a woman who does not share the feeling. Zane gets so desperate and depressed that he's ready to kill himself. He tries, but is found and taken to the hospital. After that, he gets sent to a psychiatric hospital. The stories not finished, but it's to the point where he seems to be falling instead for the woman doctor who's helping him. I think that the more than doctor/patient relationship is just closure so the book isn't too depressing. Zane's attempt at a relationship with the first woman takes up most of the book, as well as his psychological degeneration. The suicide attempt did seem to be the climax. That story should go in an actual bookstore.

I go around more of the store, grabbing some pre-baked muffins for breakfast and a soda. I don't want to leave empty-handed, I think it would call forth some suspicion. Now I just wonder where John went. It's getting late, and I want to get back to base. 

"Oh dear lord…" I turn to the sound of his voice, again in complete shock. How is it that he's the only one who can sneak up on me without my notice? He must have paid _really _close attention during stealth training.

I notice that he's looking at me strangely.

"What now?"

"I don't bloody well believe it…"

"What do you mean?" He has a look of absolute shock and disbelief on his face. I'm quickly becoming suspicious, even paranoid. What the hell is going on?

"It's just that… Wow." He has a tone of great awe in his voice.

"What already?!"

"You… You're actually gonna_ pay_ for something!"

I groan inwardly as I scowl at him. I actually let him lead me on. The little…heh heh. I probably shouldn't say that.

Meanwhile, he's standing in front of me, the look of shock gone, replaced by his usual wide grin. He's doubled over, clutching his stomach and laughing almost hysterically. Not to mention he's crushing the bag of chips he'd had earlier. I hate it when he has fun at my expense.

"Oui, oui… Très amusant. Now are you ready to go yet?"

"Oh…yeah…whatever…" He was struggling to talk between laughs. He straightened up and started walking along with me, failingly trying to stifle the remaining laughs in his system.

He finally fell silent as we headed toward checkout, though he still seemed greatly amused, probably playing everything out again in his mind. He takes great pride when people fall for his acting.

"So, what did you need bought, anyway?" I ask cautiously. I'm afraid he'll burst out into another fit of laughter at any moment.

"Oh yeah. Um, I'll give you the money right now and everything…"

"Obviously it's not going to be a gift,"

"Yeah, it's just…"

"Well, what is it already?"

"I need you to buy me a new lighter."

"Are you kidding?" What happened to the last one? He guarded it like it was his most prized possession. Come to think of it, it probably was.

"No…" I noticed he looked kind of sad about it. "I dropped it the last time I was…out."

"You mean when you torched that building?"

He looked quite pale suddenly.

"How did you know about that?"

"It's in the paper," I grabbed a copy off the rack by the conveyor and handed it to him. He seemed to get even paler.

"I'm dead," he whispered. "Shit, Remy, do you realize how much trouble I'm in if the boss sees this? He got pissed off enough last time…"

"Well, we can just hope he doesn't find it." I'm trying to think of some way to make him not so worried. "So, which lighter did you want?"

He pointed out one very similar to his old lighter—a brushed silver Zippo engraved with a spiral symbol that looked like a crop circle. He slipped me the money to buy it. He couldn't himself, because there's some policy, be it a store or a state thing, that says incendiary devices cannot be sold to anyone under the age of 18. He's just that one fateful year short of the cutoff.

He seemed a lot less nervous by the time we'd made our purchases and got back to the car. Maybe it was the distraction of the lighter, which he was already busy flicking on and off. Maybe it was the fact that I'd told him about 12 times that it was extremely unlikely that Magneto would come through the kitchen and start flipping through the paper. Either way, it was better than him standing white-faced chanting the mantra 'I'm dead.'

It's been two days since the building he was responsible for torching burnt down. The one thing I'm most surprised by, seeing as how it _is _his main source of entertainment: How did he get by two days without is lighter?

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To be continued…

Special thanks to all those who have reviewed! You truly do make writing this worthwhile.

Dark-English-Rose

ahra

Scurvy Kat (again! Yay!)

Pyromaniac (yet another review! I'm glad you guys like this so much as to actually continue reading it)

Snitter in Rivendell (how many different ways can I say thanks for reviewing both chapters? Thanks for making me a favorite!)

N'Awlins Demon Lover (2 fer 1 deal! Were they supposed to be the same?)

Faeryeyes- bad ff.net! Hiss!

Rakuril

Jadehunter- you're the second person to mention an idea that's already in the works. Weird.


	4. Why He Does What He Does aka The Slip

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Pyromane

(French for Pyromaniac)

DISCLAIMER: I sadly do not own X-Men: Evolution, especially Remy, John, or Piotr.

AN: I'm truly sorry this took so long. I had writer's block and tense issues… Part 5 should be up soon. It's done, I just need to proofread. Also, the next three chapters or so will be less humorous and more serious. It gets better though, so don't fret or hate me. Please?

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Remy observes one of his fellow teammates.

Chapter 4

Why He Does What He Does…

(a.k.a. The Slip)

The drive back to base was definitely more enlightening than the drive to the store. I knew I'd turn John white in the face again, bringing it up, but I asked anyway.

"Why d'you burn dat building?"

He slowly closed the lid to his new lighter before he even looked at me. He'd been fiddling with it nervously for the entire ride. He still wore a rather worried look. I can understand why. 

Ol' Mags had threatened to deport him the last time John had destroyed anything outside of a mission or training. And after all the threatening was done, John had to go through the worst training session of his life—one on one against the boss. Magneto justified it as teaching Pyro self control: John was given his flamethrowers, but wasn't allowed to use them. He'd gone up against a barrage of spheres, ranging from the size of blanks to bowling balls, with varying sections of pipe thrown in for good measure. There was nowhere for John to hide, all he could do was run. John got hit a lot, leaving him plenty bruised and battered. Magneto still wasn't through with him. The metal hail got to be too much, and John had to defend himself, blasting the majority of it clear out of the air. Magneto bellowed something about how without self-control, there are "unpleasant" consequences. All the remaining ammunition swirled in midair for a moment before taking aim. John knew he couldn't outrun or dodge it, he just dropped to the ground and covered his head as everything came crashing down on him. He was okay, but it still wasn't right by any interpretation.

"I don't know," He had taken his time to answer while I had been thinking.

"C'mon, homme. It's not like it was an accident."

"Well…" John seemed like he had something to say, but he was reluctant. Or maybe unsure. He lowered his head into his hands.

"God, Remy, I don't know why I do half the things I do. We hardly ever get out of that place, it's like a prison practically. I just wanted some air and I saw it walking." He stopped watching the road and looked at me. "It was like good kindling. Dry and condemned, in the middle of nowhere. Hell, it was even scheduled for destruction already. It was perfect."

He suddenly had a look of pride on his face.

"It's an art, you know."

"What is?"

"I found just the right conditions. I just knew it'd give me a clear blaze. Nothing big and ugly, but close burning, conditions of the wood giving off different colors. It walked up to it, and I lit the door first. It just went up from there, like I'd imagined it. And that was before I'd even touched it. It was beautiful. It just begged me to use it. So I did, I…" he trailed off. He seemed to be blushing slightly, embarrassed at what he'd just said.

"I conducted it. I channeled all the fury of it into something truly great, Rem."

I realized something just them.

"That's what it feels like, isn't it?"

It seemed like John's speech had made him realize something himself.

"It's why I do what I do. Makes life worthwhile." He shrugged. I notice he has a smile already starting to play at the corner of his lips. I feel more at ease going on a lighter path of conversation.

"Just make sure you don't do what you do anymore. Stick to people's sheds. Boss don' mind you buggin' humans. He just don' want you to blow our cover wit da big stuff."

We pull into the garage at the base. I shut the car off and we both get out.

"Hey, Rem."

"Oui?"

"I'll make sure to write to you from Australia."

John and I both head toward the kitchen. Out of things to talk about, we're both silent. Piotr is already in there, surprisingly. He's pulling my move from earlier—raiding the fridge. I notice he has the beginnings of a sandwich already on the counter.

"Evenin', Pete." John greets him before moving over to the table. The papers were right where I'd left them earlier.

Piotr's head appeared over the top of the refrigerator door.

"Where have you two been?"

"The store," I reply, raising the plastic bag in my hand as proof.

"It has been a long time,"

I shrug.

"Been wanderin'. Maniac needed a new lighter."

Piotr furrowed his brow.

"What happened to the last?"

"Left it at a crime scene."

The Russian still looked confused. He glanced over at John, then stood up fully and turned to him.

"What have you done this time?"

John merely grinned before holding up the front page of the paper.

"Do you realize how angry Magneto will be if he finds—?"

John cut him off.

"Oh, he won't," The new lighter was in John's hand. His eyes suddenly were gleaming, he was excited. He set the corner of the paper alight. To show off, he tossed the thing in the air. He squinted at it, laughing to himself. By mid-fall, the paper was consumed.

"See—no evidence." John was practically giddy. He must be recovered from his worry.

"Da, except for all this." Piotr was the first to notice that ash was now raining throughout the kitchen.

"And here I thought we were all used to it by now." John was still laughing during his reply. As long as something gets destroyed, he's happy.

Piotr is a bit of a neat freak from what I've seen. He seems quite annoyed by the fact the kitchen's beginning to look like Pompeii. John picked up on the hint and got up from the table in search of the broom. This wouldn't have been the first time Piotr bugged him about making a mess out of… Well, John's done this at least once to every room in the base.

I sit down next to the seat John just vacated. Across the room, Piotr went back to making his sandwich. It was rather amusing when he had to pick up one of the slices of bread and actually knock the ash off before he continued.

John has finally found the broom—it had fallen over behind the fridge at some point—and he can't fit his arm behind to reach it. He's got half his forearm behind. I've got a feeling if he'll get stuck any moment now. Colossus to the rescue. I catch the glint of metal before I realize what Piotr's even doing. He's gone metal and reached over to the corner of the fridge. Effortlessly, he pulled it foreword. He hadn't even looked up from making his sandwich on the counter. John almost fell over behind it when it was moved. He grabbed it quickly and reemerged so Piotr could let go.

John was already busy clearing up the ash as Piotr finished making his dinner. The Russian joined me at the table.

Piotr picked up the remaining, non-incinerated paper from the table. His normally blank expression became one of displeasure as he read the headline article. I know that Piotr, being as non-verbal as he is, wouldn't mention anything.

"Heinous, isn't it?"

"Da," He barely replied, instead opting to take a bite of his sandwich. That reminds me. I have the bounty I stole for him still in my coat. I grab the two items destined for him and toss them across the table.

The pencils hit the bottom of the newspaper, grabbing his attention. He looks down at the items then at me over the edge of the paper.

"What's this?" He asks me quietly.

"For de comrade, o' course." I grin and try to make myself somewhat innocent-looking. Piotr's got another nickname beside Colossus. He's also known as Petey Pureheart. He's definitely big on the righteousness, and he definitely does not approve of my thieving ways. Thank god he's already given up on trying to make me change.

"Stolen?"

I falter in my grin. "Remy admits his guilt."

Mr. Reticent doesn't say anything, but he gives me his usual face of disapproval. Then again, I get it about five times a day. He knows it's pointless.

"Hm, thank you." He's definitely reluctant to give me any kind of appreciation for the stealing, but he's polite anyway.

I get up from the table. I still have my soda from the store, and I'm really not thirsty. I put it away in the fridge. I move to lean against the counter.

"Nyet!" John and I both froze at Piotr's exclamation.

"What's wrong?" John was the quickest to ask.

Piotr is looking frantically to me and John. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it quickly, a look of rapid concentration on his face. He always got that expression when he could only think in Russian. He is still learning English, and sometimes, like whenever he was emotional, he had to stop and translate before he spoke.

"Have you read this?" Concern was evident in his baritone voice.

John didn't, but I already knew the secondary article. About the suicide.

Piotr is looking at me. I don't know what to say, so I just shrug slightly, a somber look on my face.

John leaned the broom against the wall and walked over to where Piotr sat. From where I stand, I can see his eyes flashing over the article. By the end, his face was noticeably paler, and he had a sickened expression on his face.

"Bloody…hell. Who could say that…? Remy, have you read this?" John spoke very slowly. It was obvious he was in mild shock.

I nod to him.

"Exécrable." I quickly correct myself in English. "Awful."

"Who could be that desperate?"

"Like Zane…" I spaced for a moment on where I'd heard the name. Right after I'd said it, I remembered. John is giving me a suspicious look. I stare at him before I clap my hand over my mouth. I don't believe I just did that. My reaction seemed to confirm John's suspicion.

Piotr is suddenly confused, looking back and forth between John and I. He's still sitting at the table, the paper in hand.

John, who had been hunched over the table looking at the newspaper with Piotr, stood up slowly. His face is now set with a look of pure hatred, fixed on me. John is completely rigid, his hands balled into shaking fists.

I look around quickly. I knew this day would come, I'd slip. Why did it have to be now?

"You… You read…" John is livid. His voice is a growl coming from clenched teeth. "You bloody traitor…"

A small part of my brain was expecting this, but the rest of me was honestly surprised.

He launched himself at me.

****

To be continued…

A cliffhanger… Details of the fight coming soon.

Special thanks to:

dReAm sPrItE- Keep in mind, he still had matches and a flamethrower…

Faeryeyes- Yay! Now I'm on two people's fav author lists (it says so in my stats)

Dark-English- Rose- Look! It happened again!

The Dark Vixen- I don't even remember where I heard that John was a writer, but thanks. As you can see, it really quite important for the story.

Pyromaniac- That's a different review.

Pyro-iz-hot- I don't know how to respond to that.

epona

Snitter in Rivendell- this is the most wonderful review I think I've ever received. Thank you!

ChaosCat- We all do fangirl squeals at some point or another. I never had any intention of accenting the whole thing. For one: it would lose the first-person perspecctive, and 2: that would be so hard to write or read…

Link and Luigi- You should get your own ff.net account. Get an extra free email name if you don't already have one at Yahoo or somewhere and use it to open your own penname here.

Niteflite- I never really thought about it like that before, but you really just summed up the relationship well. Hm… This I must ponder further.


	5. The Fight

****

Pyromane

(French for pyromaniac)

DISCLAIMER: I do not own X-Men: Evolution, especially John, Piotr, or Remy.

AN: Shortest interval between chapters, huh? And thanks for all the reviews on chapter 4. I've got 41 reviews, and it brings such a swell of joy to my heart… Expect part six in a couple days. 

AN 2: As of part 4, Pyromane is officially my longest story ever posted. In terms of chapters at least…

****

Remy observes one of his fellow teammates

Chapter 5

The Fight 

__

I look around quickly. I knew this day would come, I'd slip. Why did it have to be now?

"You… You read…" John is livid. His voice is a growl coming from clenched teeth. "You bloody traitor…"

A small part of my brain was expecting this, but the rest of me was honestly surprised.

He launched himself at me.

In one quick blur of orange, he tackles me. I've been knocked back, bashing the back of my head hard against the handle of the refrigerator door before his weight sent me completely to the floor. My vision is getting blurry, making it even harder to get him off of me. I'm normally good at blocking, but I can't even see the fist coming at my face. His first hit contacts hard with my jaw. That alone is painful, but I just know that because of it my lips crushed again my front teeth. I can taste a lot of blood in my mouth.

He rears his fist back again, so I reach out quickly to try and stop his arm. Apparently I'm seeing double too. I miss by four inches, and there's a second crash to my left eye. He hits hard…

After a third quick hit to my cheek, he grabs me by the collar of my shirt and hoists me o a standing position again the fridge. He pins me to it, his left arm across my chest. The handle is crushing into my back.

"YOU READ MY STUFF!" He screams at me. His face is inches from mine. I'm getting scared that I can hardly distinguish his facial features. He pulls me forward and slams me into the fridge. The handle lays across my spine this time. It's too much, I let out a cry of pain. I decide that, despite the fact he has the right to beat the crap out of me, I'm going to fight back. I slam my fist hard enough into the side of his face that he goes stumbling back.

Given the moment, I squeeze my eyes shut for the second I'm sure it will take him to recover in hopes my vision will come back. It's then that I realize how much of a headache I already have.

I open my eyes to find my vision only slightly better. It's less blurry, but it's darker. The darkness I write off to having squeezed my eyes shut so hard. At least, that's what I hope. I blink rapidly again. There's something running into my left eye. I reach a gloved hand up to get rid of it, and see my fingers come back down bloody. My brow is split.

I concentrate ahead of me. A great shape has appeared between me and John. The shape is reflecting the overhead lights blindingly. I look past the reflection on Piotr's right arm. I can se John glaring at him. John moved forward quickly and tried to hit him. There's a sound like a gong and John swore louder than I've ever heard him. Piotr's yelling at him. Neither of us can understand him—he's slipped into Russian. John managed to dodge around him while he yelled. John was on me again, and he had momentum on his side. For the countless time, I'm slammed into the fridge. He sends his fist into my head again. I prepare myself to blow another blow to the head. As I block, he kicks me hard in the leg. I sink toward the floor again, off balance. He takes the opportunity to knee me in the chest. I yelp in pain, the wind knocked out of me. At about the same moment, Piotr yanks John away from me.

I watch John as I struggle to catch my breath. Metal or no, Piotr seems to be having a difficult time restraining him. Piotr turned himself and John around, putting himself between me and the pyromane. I don't think Piotr's trying to get any more physical than he has to, but when I caught sight of John again he was on the floor. While John is down, Piotr reaches back and pushes the table against the far wall, cutting off the route John used before to cut around him. Piotr shouted over John's protests ('Let me at him!' or 'I'm gonna kill him!'). This time, Piotr made sure to speak in English.

"What is going on?!" Piotr shouted. He was more confused than angry, but seeing as how he's usually silent and still intimidating, a bellowing Piotr was scary. I'm scared for John's safety, even if I do know that Piotr would never do anything to truly hurt him.

Past Piotr, John still is glaring at me. Even against Piotr in metal form, he's still defiant, after _my _head.

But John gave in. He knew he had no hope of beating Piotr.

"He read my work," John growled.

"What are you talking about?"

"I write!" John pushed himself of the floor as he spoke. "It's a hobby, and it was a SECRET! But thanks to that swamp rat…" He shot his finger toward me. "Now everybody has to know!"

I'm still doubled over on the linoleum floor, struggling to breath.

"I'm…" I got out one word before I burst into coughing. "I'm sorry…"

"SORRY?!" Apparently all I've done is refresh his anger. He's running toward me again, but Piotr is still in between us. "You're SORRY?! That was private stuff! You had NO RIGHT! No _RIGHT!_"

I want to say I know I had no right. I knew all along that I shouldn't have done it. I remain silent. No matter what I say, it would only piss him off more. 

He's still looking at me with an expression of complete contempt. He backs away from Piotr, toward the hall on the other side. He turns and bursts down, out of sight. He's admitted defeat for now. 

Piotr didn't try to follow him. He turned to me, his physique now smaller and flesh-toned. He looks at me—hunched over on the floor, bleeding from the eyebrow and mouth—and says nothing. The look he's giving me makes me feel terrible. His expression is on the verge of disgust. I feel like less of a person than I have in as long as I can remember. All he does is shake his head at me before hoisting me up and helping me hobble down to the med. ward.

****

To be continued…

Piotr's opinion on the situation between Remy and John, and the extent of Remy's injuries.

Special thanks to:

Link and Luigi- ooh. Glowy.

hihi528

Dark-English-Rose

Akai Kah'ghe- John left his lighter on the table while he was sweeping… I forgot to mention that. Hm.

Nari

X-Girl- Blasphemy! I love the acolytes, why would I kill them? Also, thanks for the Attack of the Sugarcrazed Fasttalker review too.

Dark Angel- Thank you! I really had no idea when it would come back. I mean, hiatus over in May? HAH!

Scholar- 

Dragon Master Lytore- A little violent, no?

Cat- Really? What have I inspired? I must know…

Faith- it will keep going until I can think of no more. There may be waits in between (like between part 3 and 4…writers block), but new inspiration comes daily. Oh, I hope you liked this chapter then…


	6. Piotr's Thoughts and Opinions on the Mat...

****

Pyromane

(French for pyromaniac)

DISCLAIMER: I do not own X-Men: Evolution, especially Piotr, Remy, and John.

AN: I know that parts 4, 5, and 6 came in pretty quick succession compared to some other parts, but I can't always keep up the pace. I had writer's block for a while, about halfway through part 4, and then one night had massive inspiration and stayed up 'til 5 a.m. writing all three… 4 was good, so I posted it, and I just needed to tweak a few details in 5 and 6. Right now, though, I'm not so epiphany-having as where I'm going to take this, so there will probable be a wait for 7. Sorry…

AN 2: If anyone is an avid fan of this and wants to know when I update (if they don't have author alert or whatever that is…) just let me know at the end of your review with your e-mail. I'll try and keep track of it all and alert you myself. Oh, and I'm seadragon64@aol.com so you won't thinks it's random junk mail and delete it. Lastly, I plan on sending the e-mails the same time I post the story, so the new chapter might now show up immediately. Try using [ Find ], it might work that way…

****

Remy observes one of his fellow teammates

Chapter 6

Piotr's Thoughts on the Matter

(a.k.a. The Not-So-Pyrocentric-Chapter)

It's only when I'm injured that the med. ward seems far away. Especially with a leg injury that made it a pain to walk. John is right side dominant, and since we were face to face, he ended up kicking me hard in the left knee. Thankfully, Piotr was supporting about half my weight, most importantly to me the _left _half. My arm was slung over his shoulders, and he half-dragged me along that way.

We entered the Medical Ward and he dropped me on the edge of one of the many cots in the room. I'm not sure how to split massaging the areas of pain. I'm torn between my very-sore, most-likely-bruised chest and the even-sorer possible concussion on the back of my skull. I ignore both for a moment, wiping more blood away from my eye. I very lightly touch the area I think is bleeding. My suspicions are right—the edge of my eyebrow is now split open. I pause to wipe the blood that trickled down my chin away too. The first hit opened a cut on the inside of my cheek when the flesh was smashed into my cheek. Every hit after only made it worse.

Piotr must have seen my pathetic attempt at cleaning the blood off as he was on the far side of the room. He's coming back from the supply cabinet, a box of supplies under his arm.

"Here," he said quickly before throwing a cloth at me.

"Uh, thanks." I say. "For everyt'ing. Especially keepin' him from killin' me."

Piotr says nothing to me. He still is looking at me with the same semi-disgusted expression.

"Right den," The silence is rather awkward. Piotr has dumped the contents of the box on the cot next to me. He's sitting down, rummaging around the supplies looking for something. I really have no idea what.

While he's searching, I quickly do a satisfactory job of cleaning off the blood. With it gone from my chin, I hold the cloth over my eye to try and stop the flow that's still emanating from it. Nothing more to do, and lacking anything to say, I stare at the floor.

"Gambit." I bolt my head upright. Piotr has a small pen-size flashlight in his hand.

"Put pressure on that," He directs me quickly. I do as told and press harder over my eye. He clicks the penlight on.

"Look at this." I follow the light side to side as he moves it. He moves back to the other cot and consulted a small first aid book.

"How does your head feel?"

"Pained,"

"Vision?"

"Blurry. Some seeing double."

He ponders the information for a moment.

"You might have a concussion. Minor, at worst." He says finally.

"Great," I say with mock-enthusiasm.

Piotr didn't look at me as I spoke. He was reading the label of one of those instant ice packs. After a moment, he crushed it between his palms to activate it as the instructions said. He is staring intently at a crease in the white sheet of the cot as he kneads it. The look of disgust is finally gone from his face. He looks very unsure. I can tell he's thinking about something important. I guarantee it relates to everything that just happened. Maybe he's ready to forgive me. Then again, I should probably consider he isn't looking _at_ me. I highly doubt there's anything about the sheet that could offend him.

I can tell he's getting deep into his thoughts. His hands are slowing down.

"Piotr?" He snaps out of his thoughts and looks over at me. The uncomfortable, torn expression that he gave the sheet still adorns his face. At least he doesn't think I'm still the vilest thing on Earth as I'm sure John does.

Once again, Piotr doesn't reply. He stood up and pushed the icepack against the back of my head. I quickly reach my free hand back to hold it. He sat back down opposite me. This time, though, he isn't rummaging around the supplies. He's facing me. It's clear he's got something to say…eventually. He is looking down and to the side. I watch him, waiting for him to say anything. I'm hoping this is one of those moments where he provides the few words of wisdom I need to make everything all right again. He's been known to do it before.

Finally, he looks me in the eye.

"I think…John is right."

I don't know what to say immediately. It wasn't exactly what I was hoping for. Then again, he's preaching to the choir. I knew it wasn't my business to begin with, but I read Saint-boy's work anyway.

"I know," I say after a moment. "I think so too."

"Why?"

"You wanna hear the whole story?"

He nodded.

I told him. Everything. I found his notebook that one morning. John always left the finished material under his bed, the current between the mattress and the headboard. I told him I read it once and kept going back for more. It was enthralling. I told Piotr what I thought of it all.

"He's good." I say finally. "Only wonder why he doesn't try an' get it published."

"It was still not your business,"

"I know, but… It's compelling. If he ever cools down, ask him about it. Deep down, we both know he loves to brag."

Piotr nodded. He looks more comfortable now that he's heard my side of the story.

"You do realize why he is angry, yes?"

"Yeah," I lower the hand holding the cloth and slump forward. This sent a ripple of pain through my chest, and I wince.

Piotr seems to remember that I'm still untreated. God knows, if it were just me I'd just fall asleep bloody. But Piotr is the responsible, reasonable one. He won't leave me alone until he's sure there's no serious damage.

He looks back down at the supplies at hand.

Piotr grabs a small single dose bag of I don't know what. He tears open the paper and foil package and dumps a vial out onto his other hand . It's one of the small swabs attached to vials of medication that is used by breaking the small glass tube inside it. I recognize the red-hued liquid as iodine. I know what's coming.

"This will sting."

"I know," I toss the cloth onto the nightstand and grab hard the edge of the cot. He quickly went over the split in my brow and closed it. This was the degrading part for me; I hate being fussed over in any extension of the word.

"It should heal fully."

"Thanks,"

He looked me over again quickly.

"Take off your shirt,"

I obliged, pulling off my coat and T-shirt. I'm surprised at how bruised I am. Where John caught me with his knee—right at the bottom of where my ribs still join—was a deep hue of purple. Piotr inadvertently let me know how bad my back looks. He had gotten up again and walked around behind me to assess the severity of it all, and upon sight didn't completely stifle a gasp. I'm sure getting slammed into the refrigerator door, handle-first, was no better for my back than John's knee was for my ribs.

"How well are you breathing?"

"Fine, only hurts when I move."

Piotr nods again. He goes back to the other cot and consults the book for the thousandth time. I end up with an Ace bandage wrapped around my chest. I was finally done being treated when my knee was wrapped and I had an icepack on it, too.

I lay down on the cot while Piotr disappears back to the supply cabinet. He put back any excess supplies and returned with a dose of painkillers in one hand and a cup of water.

"Here," I sit back up as he hands me the two pills and hands me the water. I take it graciously from him, hoping that they're fast acting. My head kills. Piotr doesn't stop to talk anymore. He moves straight for the door. He pauses before opening it.

"Be careful around him. You betrayed his trust, and he has all rights to be angry."

I nod in Piotr's direction.

"Stay here tonight. John is most likely playing his stereo loud again."

I sit up to thank Piotr one more time, but he has already left the room. I guess he doesn't have to worry about John's music, his rooms on the other side of the base. My room is right across the hall from John.

So here I am, bruised and battered and laying in the med. ward. After everything that has happened in the past few hours, I can only think one thing: What a day.

I only hope now that as I fall asleep here, I'll wake up again to learn this was all just a weird, painful dream.

****

To be continued…

Special thanks to:

Etwa- Merci.

X-Girl- I beginning to think I have a huge fan. I grin!

Cat- I think your review appeared twice. Does this mean I have only 50?

faeryeyes- the Acolytes are the best. They are the three best guys in Evo, and they are conveniently all on the same team so we don't have to say three names every time… Also, had someone read your secret stuff, or did you beat up a close friend/teammate/surrogate(pseudo-?) older sibling? I am curious… 

Faith- I think your in closest competition with X-Girl. John's take on things? Good things will come to those who wait… In either part 7, 8, or at the worst 9. Probably 8. I don't know, part 7's only half done. Hm.

Sabrin- I like details. Huge gaping holes could be tripped in. God knows, I'm clumsy enough…

Dragon Master Lytore- Well, no chairs, but I _did _consistently include the refrigerator…

Pyromaniac- What is shibby? Also, would you like a heads up when I update? See author's note.

Dark-English-Rose- You're welcome. 


	7. Three Days Later

****

Pyromane

(French for pyromaniac)

Disclaimer: I do not own X-Men: Evolution, especially Piotr, Remy, or angry little John.

AN: Sorry about the wait… Anyway, I'd just like to say: 68 reviews… HOLY [expletive deleted]! I didn't know this story was getting so big. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint, I know it's short and not very plot-filled. I needed at least one chapter of angry-non-murderous John and Remy interaction! I have know Idea where the inspiration to have Pietro there came from, though. Hm.

AN 2: I'm going on vacation Aug. 9-16, and I won't have access to the internet (or even a computer unless I can take my sister's laptop, which is doubtful), what being in a hotel room in a different state and all. I'm hoping to post one or two more chapters before then. I'll probably get lot's of writing done in the long untouched fanfiction notebook though. My friends decided to ignore me for yet another summer… Apparently I'm only worthy during the school year. I can still be accompanied by my obsessions though. Enough AN now.

****

Remy observes his fellow teammate.

Chapter 7

Three Days Later

It's been three days since John found out. Ever since the fight, it's like he doesn't even live here anymore. The only sign of life is the sound of his stereo from time to time. He avoids me at all costs, nothing's been blown up, no need for a fire extinguisher… This is lucky for me, considering I though his first move would be torching my stuff after trying to kill me. I don't really like to admit it, but I spent the day after barely moving it hurt so much. Now the pain is just a dull throb.

This morning hasn't been much different. I've woken up late once again. Pain isn't so noticeable when I'm asleep, and I've been taking full advantage of that. I don't bother changing out of the red flannel pants I slept in; I just pull on the first t-shirt I get my hands on.

I wander half-asleep down the hall and toward the kitchen. Stopping in the doorway, I'm surprised. Apparently, John _has _been coming out of his room. He's sitting at the table with a bored expression on his face. He seems to be staring at the opposite wall quite intently while he pokes the remnants of what look like scrambled eggs around on the plate in front of him. Adjacent to him is a familiar-looking white haired kid with his back to me.

I now understand why John is so spaced out. Pietro is rambling incessantly about something. Not surprisingly, he's talking too fast to understand half of what he's saying. I'm sure we're not missing much.

I only bear witness to this picture for a moment. While Pietro has stopped for a breif pause (my guess was to breathe), John spies me standing in the doorway.

"Uh, mornin'?"

John's bored look becomes a glare. He stands up from the table so fast he almost knocks the chair over. After throwing the dishes in the sink, he storms out past me.

"Remy's done a good job dis time, non?" I mumble to myself as I enter the room and head for the pantry. Pietro has apparently only just notice that John's left and I've arrived. He looked around the room quickly and blinked. Considering that every time I've worked with him, he's been a complete jerk, I wish right now that my power was invisibility instead.

"Nice," Three seconds and he is already sneering at me. I turn my head and see he's giving my current outfit the once-over. "Plaid pants, gray shirt… Spike your hair and get some suspenders, you could pass for a bad punk,"

"I jus' woke up," I state; he either doesn't hear me or doesn't care. The superior smirk still adorns his face.

I glare at him. _Explode… _Too bad I can't just will it to happen. No, I have to be in contact.

"Your worse than Lance," He continues.

I try to ignore him as I probe the overhead cupboards in search of the Cheerios. I know I left them up there somewhere.

"And that lovely black eye…"

"Shut up!" I growl at him.

"Ooh, touchy…" He leans back, tilting the chair on two legs as he props his feet on the table. He's just asking for it.

Pietro is easily the most irritating person on the planet. I've met him…twice before? He doesn't seem to comprehend manners in any sense. _I _live here, _I _eat off that table (well, off plates on that table). He doesn't. He's got no right to shove his feet on it.

Mon Dieu, I'm turning into Piotr.

"It's just—I'm impressed. Really brings out the red in your eyes."

__

That's it. I run my hand around the highest shelf in search of anything small. My finger hits something plastic. I grab it and turn to Pietro.

"Homme?" He looks at me as I charge the thing behind my back

"What?"

"Catch," I toss it across the room right into his lap.

"Is this a _spork_?" I'm as surprised as he is; I hadn't even looked at it before I threw it. Why was there a plastic spork in the cupboard?

Amazingly, Pietro has it held in front of his face and he doesn't seem to notice it's glowing. It was only inches from his face when it exploded. The chair falls backward completely, leaving Pietro sprawled on the floor. His 'perfectly gelled' hair is definitely no longer white. More like singed black. I give up my search for the Cheerios, grab a package of Pop Tarts instead, and move to leave the room. I'm sure Pietro will start moving again any time now. He's just dazed.

I head back to my room to eat my meager breakfast. I pass John's room on the way. He's holed himself up once again. His stereo is blasting music, but it's muffled by the door. I'm just about to pass by the room when small flames shot out from underneath his door. A moment later, he bursts out, coughing and swearing in between. There's a lot of smoke coming out of the room behind him. He pulls the door shut, grumbling about the evils of smoke. Only a second passes before the loud vents kick in. I realize he hasn't seen me coming for the second time today.

"You alrigh' dere, homme?" I gesture toward the smoke that still clings in the hall.

"Get knotted"

"What jus' happened?" He turned his head the other way and didn't respond.

"John?"

He let out an exasperated sigh.

"Flame met flammable thing."

"And dat's why fire be shootin' out from yo' door?"

"What aren't you understanding? You know, sod off, get knotted, go…away from me."

I don't move.

He mumbles an insult just loud enough for me to hear before starting to walk away. I catch up and grab him by the shoulder.

"John," I prompt again for an explanation. He faces me with a dark look.

"Listen, _mate_, you looking to get creamed again?"

"You think I wouldn't see it comin' dis time?" I believe right now I clearly have the upper hand. Face to face, I stand over him by several inches.

"I'm outta here," He tried walking away again.

"One o' these days, your gonna have to drop the angst-ridden teen act."

He didn't waver in his step; he looked back at me and bit his thumb.*

I read that book.* I _know _what that means.

If only I had another spork to charge…

****

To be continued…

Why Pietro was there, what happened to John's room, and more… not necessarily all in the next chapter.

*This was inspired by a scene early on in _Romeo and Juliet_. Apparently biting your thumb was the equivalent of the finger or something. John's a book person, so I'm sure it would be in his mind to use it, though he didn't expect Remy to understand the insult. I don't own R+J either, although I did almost destroy the copy of it the school gave me. God, that story is depressing.

Special thanks to:

N'Awlins Demon Lover- I did. I only rewrote this chapter twice. But I think this acceptable, though I feel bad about its shortness.

epona- My heart swells with pride. Thank you! I think the secret is I finally have a distinct lock in my brain about them…it's weird.

Dark-English-Rose- If Remy were real, I'd be too busy stalking him to write.

Akai Kah'ghe- I agree. My boyfriend just gave me a Zippo lighter, and well… Let's just say I was plenty occupied for a while. FIRE. heh

Dragon Master Lytore- I'm glad the fridge is an acceptable substitute.

X-Girl(4)- Steal giant Hershey bars from the candy aisle in Shaws. Be like Remy!

Pyromaniac(1)- I wanna know what I've inspired… Enjoy the heads up.

Faith- Magneto WILL show up…eventually.

Lady Kat- I'm glad you agree about the pov.

Hihi528

Sabrin- I really will have Magneto show at some point.

Snitter in Rivendell- Ch 4: Piotr was the first of the Acolytes I developed an obsession for. I couldn't just leave him…characterless. Ch 5: This is the longest review I ever got. I am in awe. Ch 6: I haven't completely decided on when this takes place, but you made me think about it. There are a couple of Pietro references in the other chapters, but that could be meaningless as for timeline. Oh, and I think you and Pyromaniac are the only people who read the author's note about the alerts. Enjoy the attachment.

Dark Angel(60)- Thank you!

Faith- I'm still alive. Thank you for the concern. And it took me so long cause I wrote part 7, didn't like it, and wrote this instead.


	8. Gambit's Getaway

****

Pyromane

(You know what I means by now)

DISCLAIMER: For the eighth time, I don't own X-Men. 

****

Remy observes a teammate. It's all about the interaction.

AN: Woo hoo! I'm finally back from vacation. I had a great time, if anyone cares, and I actually did get a friend to come up a few days after I did. That little vacation inspired another wonderful Acolyte fic, so prepare yourselves. I haven't written more than a page or so, but it will be done.

Oh yeah, something good came for readers from my vacation—lots more Pyromane! I've had another rush like the 4/5/6 one… Unfortunately it's all in the now-much-more-used-and-half-full- Fanfiction Notebook. That means I have to go back and type it all. At least it's written.

Too much Author's Note again. On with the fic…

Chapter 8

Gambit's Getaway

(a.k.a. The Beginning Of…)

At first, I felt bad about what I did. Guilty. I knew I was betraying his privacy and trust. But now I don't. One of my beliefs is that once something's done, it's done. I made my choice weeks ago to ignore the signs that his notebooks were guarded possessions. I've got no intention to waste my time dwelling over everything. I'm over the feeling of guilt and need of repentance. But John's not over the anger. I've known for a while that John's a hot head. In more ways than one. I know he doesn't exactly like to forgive the actions of others. He holds grudges. How he's acting know, on that sustained anger, that's really getting on my nerves. He's not one to go about his ways like most people I come in contact with. Usually, it's because he's insane that he stands apart from others in my mind. Now it's his age that's showing through as a difference. He's still mad as hell after four days. I'd be content after kicking the ass of whoever set me off. In addition to that, John has acted like a little kid with a grudge. He refuses to acknowledge, giving me the silent treatment and more. He's immature! I'm going to go crazier than him if I don't get away from everything. I decide to get off base, away from the animosity.

I storm down the hall after I change. I plan on going into town for the day. I'm sure there will be enough things to occupy my time, and by that I mean distract me and kill hours on end. I'm heading straight for the garage. I do pass the kitchen on my way. There's no semi-albino body on the floor, so I guess I didn't manage to kill him. Not how it's only half-sarcastic when I say: Too bad.

I've made it all the way across base, and it only occurs to me to make mention of my departure. I backtrack through the halls until I find Piotr's room.

His door is open, so I knock on the frame instead to get his attention. Piotr's hunched over his desk in the far corner. He doesn't seem to hear me, probably lost in a drawing. The pencil moving furiously in his hand confirms it.

"Piotr?" I question.

He jumps. Facing me, I can see two small black wires trailing down from his ears to something resting on his desk. He's either been listening to the English tapes for the hundredth time, or some of the strange classical music he listens to on occasion. Either way, it explains why he didn't hear me.

"I apologize," he mumbled, gesturing for me to enter.

It's amazing how different Piotr's room is from mine or John's. There aren't any personal items on display, save a pile of books and the drawing he's working on. There aren't any clothes lying around or anything. Not even something so little as a misplaced sock. I don't know where he keeps his stuff. He only has the same small dresser as in all the rooms. I know I can't fit all my stuff into mine. His bed is neatly made and pressed against the right wall. That seems to be about it.

"What is it?" he asks me.

"Oh, I'm goin' intah town for the day. Thought I'd tell someone so we'd know John hadn't just killed me and hid the body."

Piotr scowls at me. Right, I forget he doesn't particularly like morbid humor.

"You need anyt'ing?"

He shook his head.

"Remy gonna be off den," I say, twirling my key ring around my finger. I've had it in my hand ever since I _almost _got into the garage. Apparently I've rotated it one time too hard. As soon as the last word escaped my mouth, the keys went flying away from me, landing squarely on Piotr's desk.

"Sorry," I say quickly. I move to the landing sight to retrieve the keys. I'm surprised by the drawing that they've landed on.

"Feelin' a little gothic today, mon ami?"

The drawing was nothing like his usual peaceful landscapes and sketches. He must have used charcoal to get the darker tones that came together to form what looks like a castle, done at a strange angle from the perspective of someone standing on the ground, peering in the entrance hall at the shadowy beginnings of a person still in sketch-form. Scattered around the unfinished one are about a dozen similar finished drawings. They're all the same content, but from different angles and perspectives, not to mention done with different mediums.

"No," he pauses. "It's a…commission?"

I nod and begin to leave the room.

"What do you think?"

"Good," I give him a nod of approval. "Weird fer you, but good." I stick my keys safely back in my coat pocket, making sure to note which one.

"Gambit'll be back in a few hours." I call back as I head out of his room and back toward the garage.

It was a good 20-minute ride into the heart of Bayville. I admit, I did take my time cruising the back roads to get there. Alone on my motorcycle, coat flaring out behind me. It was definitely a pleasant experience, especially compared to the hostility on base.

Now I'm in the center of Bayville's commercial district. I parked behind a rod of connected stores and began wandering, looking for something to do.

I duck into one of the closer stores of my interest, the record store. I move slowly between the aisles, in search of any decent titles. I'm not paying complete attention to my walking by the time I reach the end of the last main aisle. I nearly walk into a large sign proclaiming a new 'Import CDs' collection. I'm empty-handed, and I've already prowled the rest of the store, so I have nothing to lose by looking there.

The Import section is so small I don't see why they even bothered advertising it. It's only a roughly 4-foot wide section of the same layered black shelves as the rest of the store. Someone just pushed it separate of the other sections until it was tucked away in the back corner.

I look on the side facing the rest of the store rater than the back wall first. There was someone already browsing the other side. By the dividers, I knew I was looking at N-Z first. I don't remember all the bands, but I recognize the names of several of John's favorite. That tiny section of my brain that, much to my annoyance, still feels bad is urging me to get one of the CDs as a peace offering. On that train of thought, I recall one band that appears more than anything else on John's poster-wallpaper. I'll have to wait before looking, as the band fall under A-M, and the other patron is still standing there. In the meantime, another name comes to mind. I scan the shelves for the band. I eventually find it and pick up the case for further inspection.

"Oi, you lookin' for Aussie music?" I jump at the accent. There's no way in hell John's here. I look up quickly at the person on the other side of the shelf. He's familiar. I've only ever met one Australian with green hair like his, eyebrows died to match.

The kid looks just as surprised as I am.

"Remy?" he asks cautiously. That definitely confirmed it.

"Nigel, right?" It's been months since I've seen him, and I only was in contact with him for three days, but apparently I'm just as memorable as he is.

Nigel is one of John's old friends from Australia. He was actually the one to introduce me to John in the first place when I went to recruit him. Nigel was easy to remember. He had green hair, something uncommon in his small town not too far outside Sydney. It was short all around, but the sides were shaved down to little more than green stubble. It gave the effect of the most unique Mohawk I think I've ever seen. I doubt my descriptions that great for it.

He hardly looks different now. He still wears the same style clothes, lots of plaid and metal. The only visible difference is a long scar running down the side of his face that looked very new.

"Fancy meeting you…" Nigel still looks rather stunned. It only took him a moment to recover. "John tainted your taste in music?" He glanced down at the CD in my hand as he spoke.

"Oh, non…" I shove the CD hastily back into his place. "Toying with the idea of a peace offering."

He raises an eyebrow at me.

"Homme's out for mah blood."

"Hell hath a fury very muck like a pissed off pyro," He chuckled.

John had just as great a reputation in Australia as he does here. The only difference is here, we gave him flamethrowers.

There is a moment of awkward silence

"A lot been goin' on 'round here?" he asks.

"Not that much. You?"

"I think we've got a lot to catch up on.

I nod.

"You drink coffee?"

I agree, and we head our of the record store to a diner not far down the road.

****

To be continued…

Just as fast as I can type. I didn't sleep so I could type this chapter! Seriously, it's like 7 a.m.

More of Remy's day on the town, mostly about him. It is from his perspective, after all.

AN 2: Nigel is an OC, but he's a lot more minor than the end of this chapter makes him seem. He's really only there to keep Remy thinking on the right track. Think of him as a funny, human shaped reminder… And he might at some point allow for further Remy/Piotr interaction. People liked Ch. 6, didn't they?

Special Thanks To:

X-Girl(4)- Sorry I didn't get this up before vacation…I could have, but I was lazy. Enjoy your chocolate!

Faeryeyes- You bring up a good point… Maybe John should ponder that in future chapters. The only thing I can't decide about is Ramen. I don't make it all soupy, so a spoon doesn't work. Then it's weird using a for for such tiny noodles… I always end up using chopsticks. Don't ask why. I don't know.

Faith- Thanks for clearing that up. I knew it was something along those lines, but that was almost a year ago.

Snitter in Rivendell- I have finally written Mags into the story! Either 9 or 10, I don't know the best place to break the two chunks of text. And thanks, I did have a good time.

Dark-English-Rose- He wouldn't have a chance against our combined forces. And then we could use him to lure John andPiotr out of hiding… I love evil plans.

Crimson Fangs- Yeah, there could have been more. I think I was just in a hurry to post something before I went on vacation, and I already scrapped one version of 7. Oh well. By the way, you've got an awesome penname.

Akai Kah'ghe- Please note I'm blushing like mad. I _really _didn't mean for there to be innuendo. I'm only 15!(16 in October)

Dragon Master Lytore- There's no more bloodloss, so they mus tbe getting along somewhat better…

pix- Enjoy the update! Not tha there's anything special about it, but…::shrugs::

epona- I thank all my reviewers! Even if the thank you part turns out to be longer than the chapter itself.

Icy Flame- I love that review!

Lady Kat- Lucky you, our school only puts on stupid plays. I like Shakespeare, to an extent! At least its better than some thing about a mattress.

Sabrin- Enjoy Piotr!

Wolfpup- thanks.

QuackMoo- Soon to come, John and the Acolytes before he was recruited! Yay for story arcs!

Ima Super Mute Ant- This is great, I'm even beginning to convert people to Acolyte (well, pyro at least) fans!


	9. Day on the Town, cont

****

Pyromane

Disclaimer: I don not own X-Men: Evo or any of its characters. I created Nigel, so I guess that makes him mine, but he's really not important.

AN: I know it's been a long wait for this post, but it's finally here. The fates were against this, sending computer problems, school, and tragedy my way. I've had this written for a while, it just sat around waiting to be typed.

On which note, everyone who likes this and is happy now that it's here, thank Snitter in Rivendell for bugging me incessantly to update. THANKS!

Chapter 9

Remy's Day _contined_

(a.k.a. What Things May Come From It)

While at the café, Nigel explained what he was doing here in the first place. His band had gotten a break in Sydney and made a good amount of money off the endeavor. Then the drummer broke his arm in a fight. He used the money and time to travel. New York was his third stop.

"…And seeing as how I came to New York City, Iza insisted I stop and check up on John. I think she's got a crush on him since he left."

I nod, more interested in the swirling of my coffee than the little flirt, Izabel, another one of John's old friends.

"Oi, Cajun, you listening?" I jerk my head upward.

"What?"

"What happened to your head?" He questions me for apparently the second time.

"Fist," I reply. "You?"

He pauses, gingerly touching the scar on the side of his face. It has to be at least five inches long, curving from his brow to his jaw.

"Bar fight. Rowdy gig. This one guy—completely shit-faced—just jumped up on stage and tackled Brody…"

He must have noticed the blank look on my face.

"Brody's the drummer," He explains quickly. "So the drunk guy just ran at Brody before any of us could even react. He ran into the drums first, and everything just went off the back of the platform. Then all hell broke loose…" At this point, he's practically on the verge of laughing. I can't help but think maybe all Australians are nuts. That, or it's contact with John that does it.

"At that point, everyone went nuts. Jack—the bassist—got a black eye, Brody broke his arm, and I got a bottle shoved through my face."

I really didn't know what to say, so I didn't reply.

"Yeah, broken glass doesn't seem so bad 'til someone's slid it through the side of yer head."

I nod.

"You'd be surprised about refrigerators,"

He looks at me strangely. It must be contact with John that does it to people. 

Nigel opened his mouth to ask for an explanation, but he's cut off by a sudden loud beeping. He digs frantically around in the backpack he's been carrying and pulls out a beeper.

"Bloody…hell." He mumbles. "I gotta go, have John gimme a ring, I'm at the Motel 6."

He spoke fast and somehow managed to dump a handful of change on the table without me noticing.

He's gone in an instant. Now I'm just sitting alone at the table. Along the counter, the waitress seems to have noticed the empty spot across from me. She wanders over, smiling politely ay me. She swipes the heap of change off the edge of the table into an awaiting palm. She's already counting it as she moves on to the rest of her rounds. She's only to the next table when I stop her.

"Chere, now dat's it's just Remy, I t'ink I will take one o' those menus."

She nods, an impersonal still on her face as she took a few coins in her other hand and dumped the rest into her tip jar on the counter.

I manage to kill at least half an hour with lunch. I know I only just ate before I left, but two four-inch squares of sugary toaster things is hardly a snack to me. I'd've had a real breakfast at the restaurant, but due to my late start, they were already on lunch, so I've missed that opportunity for the day. At least my stomach's finally shut up.

Exiting the restaurant, I simply wander down the street. I don't really have any destinations in mind. There are still many stores and building, but they're getting fewer and farther between. There's a gap up to my right that's an empty playground. It's only about one, so most of the kids that age are in school still. I look past the playground to the arcade another couple hundred feet past it. I dig my hands into the pockets at my sides, feeling around for change. My fingers brush against metal, so I know I've found what my quarry. I leave my hands buried as I continue to walk.

I only get about 50 feet before I notice a dull warmth against my right hand. I jerk my arm back, startled. Believe me, as much as I try not to, I slip. Knowing it's too late now that I've broken contact to reabsorb the charge, I move quickly and toss the small rectangular object as far from me as I can. It soars past the playground equipment into the trees beyond. Of course, it's followed by the inevitable BOOM. I'm hoping it didn't leave too big a crater.

I'm not sure what it was that I charged, but my guess is that I'm now just short a full deck. That's al I can think of that was the right shape and size.

I move on more carefully. I don't want it to look like I'd caused the explosion, even though I did. Nobody seems to have connected me, though there are a few people gawking in the direction of the sound. I'm just having a lucky week, I suppose. Finally, I reach the arcade.

I've been known to spend long times in there before. Even people who know me well are surprised when they find out. Trust me, I'm no big game enthusiast, and I don't seek it out. If I'm in the area, I play. I'm just good at it.

I spend an hour or two playing one of many shooting games, my choice having the attraction of shooting zombies instead of criminals, spies, or Groundskeeper Willy. It got repetitive after awhile, so I gave it up and tried my hand at one of the virtual poker games. It was easier than real poker.

I play the fake poker until I run out of quarters. I move to leave, handing my winnings from the poker game to the first kid I pass, some pre-teen boy playing pinball. I'm guessing it must be around three for someone his age to be here without skipping. Checking my watch, my assumption was right. I continue on to the exit, stopping only a moment to watch another player win an impossible amount of tickets on what is brightly labeled the 'Storm-chaser' game. It's a skill game where the button has to be pressed when a certain bulb in a circle gets lit up. He only seems to be putting a coin in every few rounds. I recognize him, from the ridiculous flare of orange spikes, as one of Xavier's younger generation. Magneto's got files on everyone. Even behind my dark sunglasses, I can see the sparks flying off his hand to the machine. I guess I was right. I'm not on duty, so I've got no reason to bother him. He's too involved in his game to notice me.

I leave the arcade into a throng of people on the sidewalks. Now that school's been let out, there are children everywhere, from little kids with their mothers to those Electro-Boy's age. I can't stand being crammed between complete steganers, so I push my way past all tohse on the sidewalk to cross the street. I almost got hit by a car pulling out of a parking space blindly, but at least I wasn't squished anymore.

Across the street, I enter one of the largest buildings, the cinema. It's still too early to head back to base, but I've run out of things to occupy myself with. There's nothing I really want to see, but I go inside anyway.

The movie was long and boring, a waste of two and a half hours. It's late in the day now, so I rush for my bike on the far end of the street. I lost track of the movie, and during my daydreaming, I got a strange feeling. I can't really tell what it is, but something isn't right. Well, whatever it is, it's making me anxious, so I hurry back home.

It's almost 6 and I'm just now pulling into the garage. I kill the motor and move to pull of my helmet. I'm distracted, so I nearly ump out of my skin when there's a loud boming in from of me. I don't know what the hell it just was, but the sound came from the door to the main base. I think I even dropped my helmet on the floor.

A moment after the initial sound, a metallic footfall, Piotr has come bursting through the door. He looks worried. And why is he in uniform?

"Wha's wrong?" He's panting, been running.

"Remy," He almost never calls me by first name, usually opting for Gambit instead, or it's just understood he's talking to me. He's beginning to scare me. "You _must _get down to the training room immediately."

"What? We got training today?"

"Nyet," He shook his head fervently. "Hours ago."

I freeze.

Oh…shit.

To be continued…

I NEED YOUR HELP! I want people's opionons on how Magneto will react, and what he will do. I have ideas, but I'm hoping for something better. Thanks!

__

This chapter was dedicated to the memory of John Smith, a close friend of my sister who died on Saturday in a car accident. This was also for Greg Paige, who was also in an unrelated accident and is now in a coma. His prospect is not good.

Special Thanks To:

Faith- I agree, stereotypes are bad, bad things. And rulers, they can be deadly.

Dark-English-Rose- I'll bring the net!

X-Girl4- Enjoy!

Snitter in Rivendell- I know I've already said a ton for you already, but one more thing--thanks for the tip about the coat thing. I wrote that before Dark Horizons, but hey, I didn't know any better. Now all I need is a motorcycle to see firsthand, because I know own a treanchcoat of my own which pleases me deeply.

Faeryeyes- Anything's possible if you have enough pyrotechnics…

Dragon Master Lytore- I agree about the import music.

Akai Kah'ghe- I always ave to ckeck twice on the spelling of your name. I'm guessing it means something neat, am I right?

Jemina- Will do, er, have done if you're reading this… And thanks for the Ch.8 review too.

Icy Flame- I'm glad I can do accents. They're a confusing art. Just read Trainspotting. It's a whole book written with Scottish accent! And we'll see about the artwork, I originally had it for one reason, but I thought up another really good one for it last night. Who knows…

Dark Angel60- I'm sorry I took so long. Bad me!


	10. A Lesson on Why Explosions Are Bad

****

Pyromane

(C'mon… You know what it means by now…)

DISCLAIMER: I don't own any bit of X-Men: Evo, especially Remy, Piotr, John, Pietro, Mags, or Monkey Man…I mean Mastermind. You know he looks like one, admit it.

AN: I'M SORRY! I realize it's been almost two months and I really feel bad enough to shoot myself. That probably even inspired my Halloween costume, I had a disturbingly realistic bullet hole in the middle of my forehead. If anyone read what I was going to be in my profile, that only changed because the makeup didn't come out well, and I only had the supplies for one shot. Oh well.

Now that I finally have this up, I'm happier again. I hope I didn't lose too many fans because of my lack of updating. It took me forever to find the notebook all this was written in. See my profile for details from before I wrote it. Anyhoo, I just want to express all my happiness for other things as well. Anyone who likes rock, I recommend Rammstein. They've finally kicked Disturbed out of the spot for favorite band. I already own two CDs, Mutter and Sehnsucht, and I just bough the concert video Live aus Berlin last night. All I can say is I loved it, however messed up it was. One of the guitarists looked like the Oompa Loompa from hell before he took his shirt off.

Ooh, and I get to go see the Dropkick Murphies this weekend, the Nov. 15 show along with the Bruins game. I'm psyched.

Got a villainous OC? Submit it to Zakonius's fic, On the Wrong Track. Mine got in, but it was an email not a review so people can't see it yet. I give Zak mucho credit for the mere concept. I kinda want to do an interactive fic, but there's so many and they all have the same people submitting horrible Mary Sues. Sigh.

Chapter 10

A Lesson on Why Explosions Are Bad

__

"What? We got training today?"

"Nyet," He shook his head fervently. "Hours ago."

I freeze.

Oh…shit.

"Magneto is furious. You have to come."

I jump off my motorcycle, having not even dismounted yet before Piotr came running in. He's already turned and is heading back down toward the training area, where I'm guessing my fate must lie, pale with a strange grimace on his face. He's not even running, rather walking as fast as humanly possible, and I'm struggling to match pace. An angry Mags is a thing o fear, so there is no way I intend to end up in _front _of Piotr. Still, I have to jog every few paces to keep up.

Now, People have to understand Magneto to understand why I'm now shamefully terrified. I don't know how old Magneto really is, but it's almost like he's having a midlife crisis with the horrible disposition of an old man. He's big on being commander. It's like he's on a perpetual power trip. He gets angry when disobeyed or kept waiting, and I know my indescretion has fallen under both by his perception, an when he's angry he goes nuts. He's always in a bad mood to begin with the second he steps foot on base. After that, it doesn't take a whole lot to break that last straw. He must've gone through something really bad in his past to give him the anti-world view and low tlerance he has today. With his glowing personality, I hope it's easy to understand why I'm scared.

Oh, and let's not forget that little arrest warrant he's got hanging over my head, the one he could turn me in for at any moment and land me in even deeper shit. But that's a story for another time, right now, I need to know something.

"Why didn't anyone think to call me?" I asked accusingly, "You knew I was out!" I don't mean to be blaming the messenger, but my anxiety isn't giving me the clearest of minds.

"I tried!" He stopped, looking angrily at me. "Eight times! You didn't respond, it didn't even ring. All is ever did was go to voice messaging."

I don't know how that could've happened. I alwys keep my cell phone on. And the battery couldn't be dead, I just charged it yesterday.

Charged? I didn't… I dig frantically through my pockets. The one I pulled the explosive from, I found my cards intact. Mon Dieu, Lady Luck is just smiling down on me isn't she? Does she want me dead? That definitely wasn't a deck I blew up hours ago.

I know I shouldn't make the boss any angier by making him wait, but I move toward the locker room first anyway. Changing into uniform would be a good delay of the inevitable. I apparantly don't get the choice. I only made it to the doorway before Piotr yanked me back out past it. He keeps me from running, for my best interest, with a loose hold on the back of my collar. The planning room is only a few feet ahead.

The title pretty much explains the purpose of the room. It's not some big table surrounded by cairs, as one might think. Rather, there's a large monitor/console with the boss's chair in front of it. For the rest of us, there are extra crates stacked throughout the room. It doubles as storage, to an extent.

Piotr enters the room ahead of the cringing being that is me. I try and cut the expression from my face, and I'm probably failing miserably. Trying to look innocent does nothing. Overcompensating and acting like I could care less will not help me either, only getting me into deeper trouble. With my best game face on, I trudge into the room behind the comrade. I'm met by everyone already in the room. Quicksilver has a smug, victorious expression on his face as he stands hiding behind his father. Pyro is sitting on one of the crates to Magneto's left, laughing silently at my handiwork that left the tips of Pietro's hair singed black. Even Mastermind, who's here even less often than Magneto, is sitting in the far corner of the room, eyes closed in quiet meditation. I notice looking around that Pietor uncrossed one arm from across his chest and pointed to his right. I follow the cue and look upon the inevitability: One very pissed Magneto, hovering ominously inches above the floor. And ge's glaring at me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, expecting something terrible--like having my blood ripped out through my eyelids--to happen at any moment. I'm glad no one can tell, I'm still wearing my sunglasses. I'm surprised that all I hear is the sound of feet landing with a quiet tap.

"Explain yourself." His voice is perfectly even. 

My eyes shoot open, and I'm sure my eyebrows just became quite visible over the top rim of my glasses. Where are the threats? The yelling? The random metal bits orbiting around the room?

"Explain." He repeats, his voice still perfectly cool. It doesn't match the little bit of expression I can make out beyond the shrouding darkness of his helmet. This gives me a very, very bad feeling.

"Um, 'bout what…exactly?" I should have phrased that better, I want to know where I should start.

He narrows his eyes at me. Still, his voice hasn't changed.

"Perhaps you could tell me why you felt the need to blow up my son. Or maybe why you felt you had the right to ignore your job and training? And I wonder, what happened to your face?"

Merde, I forgot Magneto hasn't seen me since the fight, since a couple days before it, actually. Without the cowl covering my cheek, it's still plenty evident I've received a blow to the head.

"Oui, Pietro was just bein' a little…" How do I put it without insulting his lineage? I can't just say annoying.

"Homme was just a little grating on the nerves dis mornin', makign comments bout Remy he didn' appreciate. I only jus' been wakin' up, I ain't exactly a morning person."

His expression doesn't get any more angry, so I'll take it that he accepts my answer. That, or he just doesn't care to hear more.

"Bout de trainin', y'see, Gambit been out all day--" I hear a quiet obviously, probably from Pietro. I glare quickly at him, even though he can't tell hrough the glasses, before looking back at Magneto.

"I was jus walking along wit my hands in mah pockets. Remy sorta charged his phone witout even realizin it. Thought it was a deck of cards when he threw it. I couldn't have know bout de training."

He tilted his head forward slightly. I took this as a nod. I guess that was enough fo that topic. I didn't know what else to say about it anyway. I'm 95% sure the training wasn't on the schedule. This isn't so life-threatening as I thought it would be.

I don't know what to say about the fight. I have no idea if John's said anything about it yet. And he'll never get over it if I incriminate him along with me. I look to John, but he's still snickering at the oblivious Pietro. For once, the scorch marks aren't his fault.

Seeing that John will be no help, not that I expected much, I look to Piotr. He's the only one that might know. He's been paying attention to the mostly one-sided conversation between me and the boss. Plus, he more than likely bor witness to anyone's interaction with Magneto since he showed up to announce a surprise training session.

I look to Piotr expectantly. It takes him a moment to pick up on what I'm trying discreetly to convey. Too bad I'm not telepathic. After a moment, he shakes his head slowly to the negative.

"Right den," I mumble to myself before starting my explanations again. How to put it… "Gambit just got himself inta a bit of a fight."

"Bit?!" We all turned to John as he let out the word, sounding like he was choking on it. Obviously he was taken aback by my phrasing. Literally. He almost fell off the edge of he crate. I guess he took pride in his work more than I thought.

Pietro's looking at him accusingly, dying to get another one of us in trouble. The Aussie's smarter than that. He won't let himself fall into any trap, he can make things up in an instant to warp any possible blame from himself, and that's exactly what he did.

"Rem, you're face was _black_." What he said was true, and didn't give him away in the least. It just wasn't at all what he wanted to say. Or take credit for.

Magneto looked back to me once John's short outburst was over.

"Quicksivler, Pyro, Colossus… You are all dismissed."

Pietro was gone in an instant. John clasped my shoulder for a moment on the way out.

"You're pulp, mate." He laughed quietly so only I could hear. I glare at him as he leaves.

Piotr, being ever the good soul, is lingering in the room. He looks worried. On a look from Magneto, however, he follows the others out, leaving me basically alone with the boss.

****

To be continued… Quickly.

My writer's block is finally gone and I finally figured out what poor Remy's punishment will be. I'm sure I could have gotten some ideas, but you all just agreed on super-angry Mags, no specific ideas unless I wanted to repeat John's punishment mentioned chapters ago.

Special Thanks (and my most sincere apologies) To:

Dakr skie- Did you mean dark skie? Sorry for the wait.

Etwa- Yup, he's angry, but what shall he do? Cliffhangerish.

Snitter In Rivendell- You decided no Remy accent for Mutant Mace? Oh well, I didn't even realize you'd posted more until I sought it out and saw you had several more chapters since I'd last read it. And you have to wait till next chapter for what exactly Mags does.

Snoozing_dragon123- Woo! I have another fan!

King of the Worthless- I do intend on giving Piotr more time, but I've got two smaller arc to get out of the way first. I realize I'm neglecting him almost as much as the show. 

Green Eyed Lilys Daughter- Yeah! Authentic Verification! Can I bug you for info about Australia?

Dark-English-Rose- I can't say anything without laughing. Remy has no hope…

Epona- thanks.

Dark Angel60- Sorry I made you feel weird.

Acadian Angel- I hope you came back to read more now that there is more.

Link and Luigi- Hmm… That would have been a fun way to surprise everyone, but I don't know if they'd appreciate the OOCness… Too bad.

Faith- I'm sorry I didn't email for help. We all could have had this sooner.

The Dark Vixen- I'm really, really sorry.

Snoozing-dragon123- I'm sorry, but at least you get more Nigel in a few chapters when we go back in time- fun flashback chapter(s) to come.

Faith- I hate midterms. And end of terms, I Just had one of those and a huge scary algebra ii test. I couldn't even finish it in time.

Thanks again and sorry to you all…


	11. Punishment

**Pyromane**

(French for Pyromaniac)

DISCLAIMER:  I don't own X-Men: Evo, especially Remy, Piotr, John, Pietro, Magneto, or Mastermind. Oh yeah, or Sabretooth.  Just realized I've been forgetting him this whole time

AN:  My apologies, I realize I'm cutting it close.  At least I'm updating in under two months.  Let us celebrate, ja?  ::loud music begins in background::  I have 12 almost finished, so expect it in a couple days.  I want to see people's reaction to this one first.  And boy, I'll bet you'll all react.

Now, to the chapter....

WARNING:  Kinda graphic.  Reader discretion is advised.  No complaining, I warned you.

Chapter 11

Punishment

(a.k.a.  On Metal, Bad)

"Follow me."

I look at him silently.  He's still emanating anger, but he's turned his attention past me, out the door.  He's opted to defy gravity once again, as he's begun hovering out the door.

I follow him as ordered.  He's leading us both to the biggest room in the compound—training.  There aren't any windows, so it's black except for the two tiny lights on the far left, and they're only to indicate that the room's got power.  It's just enough to see Magneto still hovering a few feet in front of me.  I trail him carefully.  If I don't, I'm liable to walk into something.

I have to admit, I'm scared.  I expect myself to start shaking at any moment, as embarrassing as that fact may be.  The switch for the floodlights is metal; he could have turned it on at any moment.  But he hasn't, and I doubt he can see that well either.  

Another red flag is waving itself in my face.

For now, to an extent, I guess I'm glad it's dark.  Boss is already pissed, and I'm sure showing any sign of weakness or fear would only anger him more.  I know my skin has no color left in it.

On second thought, I'd rather see where I was going.  The thought of having to depending on someone who may well be trying to kill me for guidance is not comforting.  It's even worse now that I can hear the familiar unearthly groaning; Magneto's shifting the landscape around us.

We're almost to the far end before he stops.  I halt as well; continuing forward would mean walking into him.  He turned around and looked at me.  I can't see his face at all, but the thin gloss of moisture on them makes his eyes seem to glow.  He's at just the right angle to reflect those two miniscule lights…

But the glow just disappeared.  He didn't close his eyes, and he didn't move.

I whip my head toward the two lights.  There's a faint aura visible, but that's all.  Something's eclipsing them.

My brain tells me run, but my legs are slow to respond.  As soon as I move, the room is suddenly filled with the mechanical buzzing.  Metallic tendrils surrounding me, they're like snakes.  They even sound like them.

I'm finally running, away from Magneto and away from the nearest snake, the one reared up and ready to grasp, that blocks the light.  I wish to God I knew where I was going.  

Any second I'll run into something.  If I stop, he's liable to rip me apart.

A wall ahead.  I turn left.  A blur in front of me, a slight reflection of the lights and I know that there's a vine coming my way, spiked at the tip.  I reach for my cards, thankful now that I still have them, even though had I blown them up in the first place, I wouldn't be in this mess.  It's charged quickly and I whip it at the metallic tendril.  I have light for a moment and can see three more obstacles ahead.  The light of the explosion doesn't last long, and as I pass it in its fading moment, I can see it barely slowed down the mark.

I run as fast as I can, I feel like I could give Pietro a run for his money.  Butt's it's no use.  A vine intersects my path, cutting straight across about 3 1/2' off the ground.  No time to react, I run full force into it.

My chest...  A dull crack, and now nothing hurts more than breathing.  _Absolutely fucking wonderful!  _Pardon my French (and yeah, I could've said it in French), but I'm in no mode to be polite right now.  I just had the equivalent of a lead pipe smashed into my middle.

And of course, it's still low enough on me, that I completely fold over it, landing (at least it won't be with much force) head first on the ground.

Well, that should be happening, but it isn't.

_HOLY SHIT!_

Again, please forgive my horrid mouth, but I think you'll understand when I mention what just happened, as coherently as I can.

Remember that tendril that I unsuccessfully blew up?  With the spiked tip?

It's through my leg.

And now I'm hanging from that wound.

When I went over the intersect, my legs toppled upward in the process, and apparently, it was still following me.  

Forget trying to stifle it, I scream with as much volume as my lungs will allow.  I hear a laugh.  If I live through this, I will kill Magneto.  This is nothing; it's easy to tell he'll make this much worse.

The next moment, several things happen at once.  He raised me up, a good twenty feet off the floor, hanging torturously from my leg.  Bastard's using gravity against me.  I manage to keep my head tilted forward, so I can see up.  He turned the lights on while he sent me upwards.

I can see it now, the wound, clearly.  I don't want to describe it, so please, don't ask.  All I can say:  Too much blood.  Shit, I'm gonna die.

Another snake, vine, tendril, whatever they should be called, wrapped itself around my middle.  It began to turn me upright, in a pivot that doesn't work with the other one still in my leg.  I scream again.  I glance at my bloody leg and do the only thing I can think of to keep it attached.  I clench my teeth and wrack my body sideward.  All I can do is scream again.  Trying to rip myself off it, it's barbed.  It pushes itself through another few inches and the barbs suddenly become flush with the rest.  The spike pulled itself out while the other vine turned me upright.

I realize how pathetic I must seem.  Weak.  I'm surprised he retracted the spike, rather than shove it through my head.  My arms have fallen to my sides; I doubt I could raise them at this point, not with as much of the red raining from me as there is.  

I'm in less pain now than I was a minute ago, but, Dieu, it still hurts.  While thankfully not literally, I feel cut off from my leg.  It's...distant.  More prominently, the binding wound around my waist is putting uncomfortable pressure on my lower ribs.  The broken ones.  I try and use my limited remaining strength to support my torso, with those less-than-functional arms of mine.  I really have to concentrate to complete than small task.  I don't notice until I open my eyes again and glance downward, I'm now being held over far end of the room, rather than the middle.  I'm pulled slightly away from the wall, damn, the thing's winding up.  It swings quickly toward the wall, letting me go in the process.

Ow.

I should be at least grunting--that small noise of pain that I usually only allow myself to express--but I don't have the energy any more.  Stupid blood loss...

I hit the wall with my head about 12 feet above the ground.  Considering I'm about 6 foot myself, I only have to drop another body length.

It just had to be legs first, didn't it?

Ouch...

I push myself slightly up from the ground.  Everything stopped.   I stumbled forward, using my beloved Bo staff for support.  Yeah, for those amazing twelve steps I made.  And to think, I'm not even an alcoholic.  It was still hard, though.

I fall forward when the stick goes out from under me.  The snakes come alive again, five shoot at me from different direction, one around each wrist, one around each ankle (one of which I can't really feel.  That's bad, isn't it?), and finally one around my throat.   They each pull taut, so that I end up sprawled in all directions, though held upright.  One isn't too tight, don't worry, I'm not being strangled.  I'm just immobilized.

The spiked tendril slithers up in front of me again, still streaked in red.  It slowly presses against my middle.  Not enough to enter, but it will soon enough with the pressure behind it increasing.  It hurts.  I decide to ignore it.  I take one last look at Magneto.  He's standing by the two tiny lights.  I glare at him, what well be my final act of defiance.  He's oblivious.  I don't care.

The room's getting dark again.  It's like the main lights have been turned back off, even though the switch says otherwise.  Magneto fades, the tendrils fade, my surroundings fade...  Those two tiny lights still seem bright.  Funny how that works.  I watch them as even they fade.  I close my eyes before they're gone completely.  Amazing, my perception warped a moment before I did.  The lights went from their dim white to green that last moment.

Well, since I'm about to be unconscious, I'll say adieu for now, because I'm holding out faith I'll wake up again.

**To be continued...**

Special Thanks To:

Snitter in Rivendell-  Danke.

Snoozing_Dragon123-  Go back and read your Ch. 10 review.  Creepy, yes?

Etwa-  Sorry for taking so long...

Green Eyed Lilys Daughter-  So soon will I be bugging you...  Oh, and I hope you did well on the project.

Dark Angel60-  Phew, I just made under two months.

Akai Kah'ghe- Yup.  Merci, ami.

Cat- I'm sorry.  ::Cdragon is ashamed of herself::

Dark_English_Rose- I say in advance, please don't hurt your head too much.

liz-  Herzeleid.com.  Go there!  [I don't know if you got the email, so...]

dakr skie- Ok.

TO ALL READERS-  DON'T COME AFTER MY BLOOD.  Thank you.  Remember, good things come to those who don't try to kill me or wish for my horrible mutilation...


	12. Perspective Altered

**Pyromane**

(You know what it means by now.  Fun note, it's also German.  I just found that out yesterday.)

DISCLAIMER:  Do not own, blah…  I pity you if you don't realize this by the twelfth chapter.

AN: Update?  In under two months?  I hope I don't lose any readers to shock…  Eep, that'd be bad.  This was still I longer interlude than I intended, and I say now sorry.  This is the third incarnation of this chapter…

Chapter 12

Perspective 

[, Altered]

Hm, I'm bored.  Yup, that's definitely how I feel.  It can't be a lack of fire, Zippy's alight right now.  Ok, so I jest.  I didn't name my lighter.  I'm not nuts.  Well, maybe a little, and I'm sure others would argue to the contrary, but I'm not so far gone as to name inanimate objects at the age of 17.  I may have done it until the age of 11, but not anymore.

Yep.

Darn, I'm getting sidetracked again.  Where was I?  Oh yeah, bored,  I need to bother someone.  Why?  If I knew a valid reason (validity being key), I'd tell.  Alas, all I have to reason it by:  it's fun.  Isn't that enough? 

Is it just me, or do I seem to rant?  Hm.

All right, back to entertainment,  Gotta find someone to interact with.  But who?

Let's see, Pietro left after we were all dismissed.  Thank the higher forces!  He's too self-absorbed to annoy, he's bloody well oblivious!  I laughed and laughed, and he never even noticed.  And, again invoking those of the higher planes, as much of a narcissist as that bugger is, he _knew_ his hair looked like…  Well, like I'd gotten to it.  He must've gone from drama queen to Cleopatra.  Oh, and after the boredom that was yesterday morning, I'm glad he isn't here.  I don't wanna listen to him.  Ugh…  Always droning on.  [Him, not me.  Heh.]

Next person coming to mind:  Viccy.  I don't know if he's here.  Probably not, considering he rarely is.  Most likely out looking for a snack, something along the lines of road kill.  Or maybe he's wrestling.  He just looks like one.  Ooh!  Especially if he spoke Mexican.  Er, Spanish.  My apologies.  On the chance he is here, well, he ain't exactly one o' me mates.  He's much more likely to rip me apart and eat me on sight.  Especially if he knew I just referred to him a 'Viccy'.  But, of course, being the great god-like figure I am myself, I could defend…myself.  [Darn, I hate being repetitive.]  He's furry.  Burns well.

And so we can all have a laugh:  I know this from experience.  If only he hadn't destroyed the Polaroid's…

Okay, next option:  Piotr.  I think I'll go in search of him.  He's a good friend, he takes it in stride.  He's not the most fun, though.  Sometimes, he takes me too seriously.  And all he ever does is give me weird looks.  Doesn't talk enough.  Plus, I kinda feel bad sometimes, I know the bloke's got some major issues, this whole deal, I think (he won't confirm it), was forced upon him.  But I don't like to think about angst.  I left mine in Oz, and I hope it stays there.  My only qualm now is…the other guy.  Childish, I know, but to sustain my positive demeanor, I will not even acknowledge him by name.  For now.  Admittedly, I don't have the attention span to keep such activities up for long.

So, based on my logic, I head away from the TV room and across base.  I notice Zippy is starting to cut me from my flame. [Hah!  Got you again!]  My new reliable, my precious incendiary device is about to be out of fluid.  I believe it's been a whole three days since I last refilled it.  New record!  Oh well, since I can't function without fire, I must retrieve the fuel that is me lifeblood.  It's just a slight detour, I've got a bottle of it in my locker.

I bet you were expecting it to be in my room, weren't you?  Heh.  Well, okay, I just kinda left it with my uniform by mistake.  Sigh of slight defeat.

And so, I head down the left fork in the labyrinthine halls to the locker room.  Where else might a locker be, huh?  Don't give me that look…  Piotr's room would be to the right.

Walking now.  Walking is boring.  No fire now, darn lighter.  So, I whistle.  Why?  I shrug again.  I don't need to justify myself!  Gah!

Breathe Johnny…  I'm okay now.  Back to my amazing musical talents.  Have I mentioned I can play drums too?  Wait, no distractions! (though I believe my rhythmic skills to be quite impressive)  Whistling now.

As to what intoxicating melody springs forth:  I dunno.  It's just some random pattern of notes constantly stuck in my head.

You know, considering I'm a writer, I suck at real-time narrative.  I spend several lines of text describing my whistling habits.  Er, it would be lines of texts were I to write this all down.  But real-time is boring, for if that is what I were to dictate—well, it would go as such:

I'm walking down the hallway, while whistling.  I'm still walking.  Walking some more…

See what I mean?  I have no desire to do that. I don't have the attention span for that.  (Hey, it's just what others tell me, I in no way support the John-Has-the-attention-Span-of-a-Gnat Organization.)  Like Remy says, I—

Gah!  That bastard!  He should…eh.  I'd say die, but I'm a pyromaniac, not a homicidal one.  He should just suffer terrible physical pain accompanied by a large side of mental anguish, none of which he can sue me for.  If only I could send him LeMarchand's Box.  That'd be amusing.  Wait…he's seen Hellraiser too, he wouldn't touch it.

Alas.

And so I walk.

Going past the training room, I exclaim 'Speak of the devil [eyed-bugger] now!'  Only not really.  That'd be weird if I shouted things to myself.  I use my indoor-voice for that.  Heh.

As for Boomer:  Wow, quite a number must've been done on him.  He's just lying in the middle of the dark room.  

Not moving.

Hm, I wonder if that's a bad thing.  So, I shall investigate.  If only I had a fun little sidekick, I could call him Watson.  Who cares what his real name might be.

It would be kinda funny if he was dead.  I've never seen a corpse before, except this poor dog that got hit in front of my house.  I poked it with a stick.  I didn't know the dog's name (though I didn't mourn it's passing.  Hey, it chased me!), but the stick's name was Kristof.   Keep in mind, I was 8.

Wait, death would be bad.  Remy's always been the most fun to annoy.  There was this one incident, with the microwave…  It was hilarious!  He panicked!  I think he still doesn't realize it was in part intentional.  I kinda wish I hadn't lost my bagel though…  Not that that matters anymore.  He's proven himself to be a vile, privacy-invading bastard.  And no, I don't call him that as an endearment!  Note to self:  set his room on fire.  I just need to pick the lock to get in first.

Damn, he's the one who was gonna teach me how to do that!

Sidetracked in my own brain again, sorry.  All that's for later.  Right now, I'm checking his limp form for a pulse.  Hah!  He just twitched.  That's good, he's not dead.  Just for the heck of it, I poke him in the shoulder.  He's not dead, so it's not creepy or morbid.

No response, so I push harder against his arm/body joint.  I don't like to be repetitive [sometimes], remember?  He just kinda slides sideway this time.

"Rem?"

Oh great, he's unconscious.

I lean forward, a grin playing on the corners of my mouth.  My lips are just millimeters from his ear.  I inhale deeply.  Gotta remember breath support.  (I learned that in Chorus.  I did that for a bit in school too.  Until I set the teacher's office on fire.  He didn't appreciate that.)

My lungs now full…

"**REMY!!!**" 

He hasn't moved.  More badness?  Perhaps.  Damn unconsciousness, that was the loudest yell I could muster.  He's never slept this soundly before.  Then again, unconsciousness isn't exactly sleep, now is it?

I hope he's not in a coma, that'd be...weird.  But, considering how badly he pissed Mags off, I wouldn't be _too _surprised.  That old man is messed up, serious anger management issues.  Admittedly, part of me last night expected to find him dead, most likely horribly mutilated and full of metal stuff this morning.  Now would most likely be the moment to mention he appears to be intact.  Based on my view of the back of his head, he doesn't even look beat up, which is strange.  He probably just passed out from fright, the poof.  

How the hell does he get this lucky?  I burned down an old house, and Magneto beat the crap out of me.  Gambit, on the other hand, completely blows the bossman off, and he gets unconsciousness.

Yeah, I realize I sound jealous.  I am, you buggers!  Gah!  If any of you think any less of me, I outta burn down your house!  Okay, 10, 9, 8, 1…  You get the picture.

Sigh.  So, here I am, trying not to be so burningly angry.  And Remy's still unconscious.  I'm not sure what exactly to be doing at this point with him.  I'll do…something.  Then I'll go find Dr. Pete, he'll know.

Standing now, I kick him lightly in the side (I'm not being mean, it's really more or a nudge.  A hard nudge.).  It's just one final test for responsiveness.  He _still _isn't.  Next step:  get him down the hall to the Med room.  Not far, I can handle that.  No way am I carrying him.  So, I bend over and grab both his wrists.  Yes, he is being dragged.

After approximately 5.9 cm of dragging, I have come to this conclusion:

Damn, he's heavy.

Okay, so my first method of bodily transport doesn't work.  Um…  Improv. time!

I turn around and grab his arms instead of his wrists.  Yes, I realize he'll still be just as heavy, but at least I'll have a better grasp.  Facing forward (so I can see where I'm going), I yank and pull again.  I made visible forward movement this time.  Let us rejoice.  Actually no, I don't care that much.  I'm not even sure why I'm helping him like this, I should just leave him here to wake on his own.

While debating my morals (to move or not to move), I let his arms drop once again with a thud.  I make up my mind based on Piotr.  The number of weird/disapproving looks he'd give me for not acting wouldn't be worth it.  Oh yeah, I should probably mention at some point that I was never really mad at him. Just Remy.

Once again, I have to turn and face the Cajun to get a grip and continue movement.  As I lean forward, I catch sight of something weird by his left leg.  A dark streak.  Funny, I didn't notice anything until we crossed into the light of the hallway.

I'm feeling really weird right now.  Knotted stomach and all that…  I think I already know what that is, but I move closer to see.

My stomach almost came up my throat when I confirmed what that was.  Shit, he'd bleeding.  I don't particularly like blood, especially coming from one of my friends.  Biting my lip to distract myself from the nausea, I kneel down next to his leg and look closer at it.  I touch the black denim lightly.  My fingers come back wet, and I lean over and gag.  Oh god…  Oh bloody hell…

I bite my lip hard as I jerk the fabric back to see how bad it is.  Oh god, soaked through…

I dodge sideways and heave my stomach out on the floor of the training room.  I check his pulse again quickly, it's there, but really weak.

Forget lighter fluid, I run for dear life down the hall in a panic.  I'm freaking out, I don't know what to do!

"PIOTR!"

**To be continued…**

Special thanks to:

Epona-  Just so long as you remember to breath, be as crazy as you'd like.  Oh, and watch out for walls…

Alesca Munroe- Very generic.  TM?  Wow, as common as that is, you'd think it'd be public domain by now.  You must make a fortune off it.

Jukebox- Thanks, hope you liked the speedy(er than usual) update.

Dragon Master Lytore-  We all now feel his pain…

Streetwise Girl-  Good point.

Tigere47- ::Cdragon holds out wrists::  Cuff me!

Etwa-  I don't think Remy found it funny, but thank you.

Snitter in Rivendell- Thanks, ooh, and I see you updated too.  It just won't let me at ch. 3 yet!

Anon-  Hence the warning.  I tried to make it not so gorey, but that's part of the drama, isn't it.  Just be glad I didn't make it worse.  I could have, it's kind of a specialty of mine…

Green Eyed Lilys Daughter-  Ok, I have a list of questions ready, I just need to find the piece of paper they're on and actually type them.  Big question that I remember now: drinking age?

Cat- I wouldn't dare commit such blasphemy as abandoning this.  It's my pride and joy.

DemonRogue13- Thanks.

Jaina- Danke.

Berserker Nightwitch- Last few paragraphs… (shh…)

Personage-  You scare me.  ::Hides behind Piotr::


	13. Blurry

Pyromane 

(You know what it means by now…)

Disclaimer:  I in no way claim ownership to X-Men: Evo, the acolytes, or any Marvel-owned thing.

AN:  I know this took way longer than I meant it to.  I couldn't find the time to get it typed.  Blame school.  I'm so sick of it.  It's not even because it's hard, it's mindlessly easy, just far too time-consuming...  I can't promise for anything toward 14 yet, I've thought of several ways to approach it, but can't decide.  Also, I might have some research to do for it, find out how hospitals deal with this kind of thing.

Also, join my Evo RPG!  C'mon, you know you want to.  

http://pyromane.proboards22.com

Done with that shameless self-advertising, I now direct you, my faithful audience, to the fic…

(Please also note that ff.net is messing with my formatting some too.)

Chapter 13 Blurry 

(a.k.a. Consumed)

"PIOTR!"  

I continue screaming for the Russian every few beats of my run.

Oh god…  I don't know what I'm doing…  He'll know, he's gotta know.  He's the one that deals with these situations, like when I beat the crap out of that bugger…

Now, I'm strongly wishing I hadn't done that.  I wish I hadn't acted so immature, like he said.  I feel like I drove him out, and then let Mags get so worked up as he was.  Admittedly, I'd sat there _encouraging it._  As much as I hate him for the privacy invasion, I didn't…  It isn't worth having him dead over!

"PIOTR!" Another few seconds has passed, so I bark for him again.  I'm close now…

Damn, his door is closed!

I start to reach for it, but I'm still a few inches clear when it came full out crashing down.  Not just open, but smash-the-hinges, kill the latch…  He comes out into the hallway immediately after it, looking almost dazed.  He looked at me, confused, for half a second, before suddenly letting out a loud grunt of pain.  That trick with the door--  He wasn't metal. The guy really is built like a brick shithouse, I would've smashed my hand doing that(though I think he punched the door then used his shoulder for the smashing), but he's only got bleeding knuckles…

FOCUS!

"What?!"  He's back to himself, a concerned, and…angry? look on his face.  He's basing it of my white visage.

"Pete, I need your help!  Remy's hurt, bleeding…  Oh god, there's a fucking streak of it!  I dunno what to do, he's…"   

I think I've just broken Pietro's record for speed talking.  I doubt Piotr understood any of what I just said, but he picked up enough from my expression, tone, and his own fears about what had gone down last night to get the gist of my panicked ramblings.

"Where is he?" He asked, taking a certain charge of the situation.  Unlike me, he was keeping a level head, restraining his concern and displeasure about the situation to facial expression.

"By the training room," I say quickly, though I sounded oddly detached.  I take back off down the hall in the direction I came.  He kept pace with me, but sped up immediately as soon as the Cajun came into view.

He stopped abruptly, kneeling at the unconscious being's side, looking only slightly less nauseous than I had at the sight of blood.  His hand immediately went for a pulse.  He thinks its that bad too.  All my judgments, all my reactions, were based on the thick soaking of blood on everything, through bandage and garment.  I'm…  I'm afraid to know.

Satisfied with a pulse, Piotr's one hand flashed out, and I just managed to capture the fierce silver projectile that was his cell phone.  He didn't wait to see if I'd caught it, even if I registered it coming, for as soon as the phone was gone from his grasp, both arms were scraping the floor.  In a flash, he was up again and running, our mortal teammate draped across his arms.  He's heading for the garage.

I know as well as him or anyone, we can't call an ambulance here. Gotta keep obscurity, but it means even more risks.  For Remy, that is.  I don't know, he might not have much time…  We have to bring him in ourselves.  We're feet from our destination now.

Pushing through the inner door, Piotr nearly tripped over Gambit's motorcycle, it's still parked hurriedly, his helmet on the ground beside it.  He'd been rushed coming in yesterday.

The Russian pushed past to the nearest car.  I was, for the first time in the run, a step ahead, pulling the door to the back seat open and diving in myself to help get Remy in across it.  One door slapped as the driver's opened, then closed just as abruptly as the first.  For a moment, I think I should get out of the way, and leaned half forward though the opening over the center console, but decide not to make the jump to front seat.  A sudden command from the rational one makes me cringe.  I was wasting time.

"Get his leg up…elevated!" I do as told, moving low across the back floor, those whopping inches of legroom now holding all of my being.  As I move, I hit in those three crucial digits to the phone to the sound of the engine catching.  Now on the driver's side, I shuffle myself and the injured one around as gently as I can.  I don't have a coat or anything to add height, like they always seem to in the movies, with the exception of myself.  His legs are now across my lap.  It's a good thing I'm wearing black pants anyway.

Paranoid, I keep my fingers constantly against his neck, feeling that he's still with us, ignoring the awkward angle of my torso to keep my legs in position.  Hah!  For once I'm _not _being paranoid.  This is real.  I've got a valid reason for my actions.   Validity being key, right?

Wow, my attempts at calming myself down are pathetic, aren't they?  At least I don't feel so panicked.

"What are you waiting for?!"  Piotr's booming voice snapped me out of thoughts.  Crap, I haven't been paying attention, we've already cleared the automatic doors, meaning the phone finally has reception.  I press 'Send' immediately (already hit the numbers in, remember?) as he pulls off down the main road. It's only just now that I'm thinking, 

_Does he even know the way?_

I look to him in the rearview as I listen to the ringing on the other end.  He looks sure enough, determined regardless, so I focus in the phone.  One of the operators has picked up.

"911, What's your emergency?" A woman's voice, her tone deep and audibly aged, it sounds so…professional.

"Um, yeah, my friend got hurt really bad.  We're, uh, bringing him to the hospital now."  I have no clue what to be saying, and to top that off I'm so freaked I can barely breath, so I kept having to stop and swallow air.  Forgive all the uhms.

"Sire, you need to calm down a little.  It's gonna be all right."  Heh, I guess I'm not so…okay…as I thought I was.

"Now, how's your friend injured?"

"His, uh, leg.  I haven't seen the actual wound yet, but everything's soaked…"  I trailed off, feeling sick to my stomach (again) suddenly.

"Do you know the nature of the injury?"

Ugh..  _Ignore the nausea, JohnnyBoy. _

I force myself to check.  Once again, I have to push his pant leg out of the way, kneeward, revealing his calf.  Blood isn't pouring from it or anything, but the only reason is a tight brace of gauze wrapped around it, somewhat hastily by the messy, but functional job.  Mags must've decided he didn't feel like losing a crony.  It seemed unlikely, though.  He had to have been in quite a state of anger to do this in the first place…

"Sir?"  I blink again to reality, drawing from my thoughts again to the phone.  I want to focus on anything but my hands, unwinding the red covering.

"Sorry, I'm here…"

I continue unwinding the cotton, probably the one thing that had kept him from bleeding to death over night.  The more layers I remove, the fresher the blood gets.  There's a spot on each side of his leg, parallel, that I can make out as different from the rest.  I go no further, instead repressing a gag.

"Sir?"

I've taken too long to respond again.

"I think…"  Oh god, it pains me to say it.  My stomach's in my throat again, and I almost feel lightheaded.  It makes it hard to talk.  "Something went through it."

"Okay, I'm on the line with Bayville Medical now.  I need to know a name, and is he responsive?"

"John Allerdyce."  I'm an idiot.  His name not mine.  "W-wait!  He's Remy LeBeau."  I hope to stop her from wasting the type.  As for the other question…

"He's breathing, and's got a pulse.  Um, I haven't been able to wake him up."

"Okay, John…"

Rather than having continued to expose the wound more, I had begun re-wrapping the wet bandage as I spoke, proving I had some ability to multitask.  I make it particularly tight around his above, toward the knee.  Vague first aid knowledge came to mind, it was my sad attempts with a tourniquet in mind.

"How long has he been unconscious?"

"I don't know!"  I didn't mean to sound temperamental, snap-ping at her like that, but I'm getting really on edge again. It's not a phobia, but I strongly dislike blood, and I've just come to the realization that I'm _covered _in it.  Even my face.  I had to reposition the phone from time to time, pinned between my ear and shoulder, to kept it in place.  I wasn't thinking about it.

I pause in my handiwork, staring to the car ceiling and taking in deep gulps of air.  I gotta heave.  Worse even, my skin is crawling.  The feeling is unbearable.

Shudder.

"Did you find him like that?" 

I nod before registering that gestures didn't help.

"Yeah," I repeat verbally.

_Don't think about the blood._

"If it 'elps, I think I might know when it happened."

"What time?"

"Last night.  Later, 7ish maybe…"  I didn't exactly have a watch on at the time.

She made a 'Hm.' Sound on the other end, and followed it with a flurry or rapid clicks from typing.  

"They're ready for you when you get there." A statement.

I mumble a 'thanks' as I prod the Cajun again, still hoping for a reaction.  Nothing.

I sigh and moved the phone to my non-compressed left ear, holding it in place with the corresponding hand rather than shoulder.

I wipe my free right hand semi-clean on a dry patch of my pants.  Not like it'll show anyway.  Reaching again, I feel for his jugular.

Good thing Mags didn't get that… 

This is a new phase of my shock.  A moment of placid acknowledgement, before I go off again into a buzzing numbness to the outside world.  My small realization, that he could've already been gone, came and passed, and I felt I began the descent again.  He was alive by miracle, but hurt nonetheless.  Piotr was hurt too, his hand.  I'm the only one that's not, and this is my fault.

I stayed on the line with the woman right until we pulled into the hospital drive.  Three medics with a stretched were coming out the doors to meet us before the car was even fully stopped.  I had to shift awkwardly and quickly, ducking through the gap and over the center console to the front seat, to get out of the way as they took over.

They pulled him out of the car carefully, again portraying a professionalism that was of some comfort, like the woman.

Piotr had climbed out of the driver's door to help, but even he was far out of his league.  He accepted the situation was now out of his hands, into better ones, as he watched from outside what I saw through class:  Remy was placed on the stretched, tubes and wires already connecting to him like external veins.  He was rolled inside a quick pace, consumed by the automatic doors.  Piotr stayed as still as a statue for a long moment, finally getting back into the car beside me.  He wears an unreadable expression, and it hurts me to look at it, as it is likely a state akin to mine.

I decide now, I don't want to sit in waiting for him to move the car, I force my way out, wasting not a moment, and tear into the building myself.

To be continued…

Special Thanks To:

Personage- The fact that I put 2 and 2 together and realized who you are, it makes sense.  A lot of it.

Dragon Master Lytore-  He's not so off-on-tangents in this chap, but it still seemed okay. Hm, usually it's her that twitches.  ^^Personage^^

Jukebox-  It was 4 pages...  I have a feeling this made you angry, 'cause it's still untold.

Pyroluver-  Thanks.  I'm sorry I took so long...  And we'll find out over the next couple chapters...

Snitter-  Yay!  Imagine if I'd tried to make it from Remy's pov anyway.  I believe it would go as such:  "..."

GELD- Thanks, I swear I still have to bug you about that stuff, but I have to finish this arc and it keeps getting longer...

Alesca Munroe- 1st person is fun.  More reason I needed to not give Remy constant accent, because then it would have been in 3rd person anyway.  This started out as an experiment, my only real p.o.v piece, and also, it's in present tense.  That gets hard some times.  Ooh, and I had to work on not all-knowing narrators...

DemonRogue13- Danke.

Cat- I don't mind.  My English teacher likes it too.

Dark Angel60- I'm such a sadist when it comes to my characters.  Hm, let's see the list of OCs for amusement: MAtt- ran him over with a train.  Leo- Burned his arm off with acid.  And of course, we can't forget Nigel, I shoved a bottle through his face.  Oh, and that mention of Brody and the broken wrist.  I even hurt Piotr, but usually I go for the emotional kind for him, which will appear whenever I find the time to get Lament written...

dakr skie-  Wow, like me.  I neglect those same things to write it! (that, and rpg...)

Dark_English_Rose- Woo, reviewer violence!  Fun!

Etwa- I know I still took too long.  I sorry, I meant to have this up on Friday the 13th (lucky, huh?), but other events got in the way...

Streetwise Girl-  Did, and he laughed.  Did we expect anything else from him?

wyndenvir-  Thank you very much.  Also, your name is neat.


	14. Camaraderie

**Pyromane**

Disclaimer: Don't own.

AN: I feel terrible. The amount of time this has taken me is unforgivable, but that's what I ask of you anyway. I am sorry for the wait.

Ch. 14

Camaraderie

Forget the automatic doors. First of all, the bloody things tried to cut me off in my run! They were way too slow in my mind, so I may have broken the right one by pushing it. To be completely honest, I DON'T CARE. I want some kind of word from these people! They take three seconds to do it all on TV, so I'm expecting a yes or no if he's gonna be okay **now. **But these docs and medics disappoint me, ignoring me. That, and the people in the lobby have other plans for me. Damn personnel!

I got guards, nurses, and other orderlies staring at me. Two armed guys block my path that had been the stretcher's destination, so that ruins my plan. The nurses stare at me wide-eyed for a moment, before the big, hulky Piotr-impersonator orderlies make their move. I tried to evade as he reached to grab me, but I'm...off today. You understand, right? All this stress has decided to negate my training. My skills for stealth and all: gone. I didn't entirely miss, but I wasn't really caught either. It leads me to where I am now, and I must say, these are some tasty tiles.

Confused? I don't blame you. I'm not quite sure how my mad skills (wow, American slang is funny) led me to trip over the orderly, but they did. He pulled me back up real quick, a nurse in my face immediately.

"Are you hurt?" she asks.

Hurt? Aside from my sore face and palms as of two seconds ago, I'm fine, and wondering why the bloody hell she wasted her time asking me that. Wait, rewind, and play it again with me paying attention to all the little details. I shake my head vigorously, moving so she doesn't catch that flash of nausea on my face or the strange cringe I make when my skin crawls. I'm still all blood-covered. Eeeehh...

"Getoff me! It's not mine!"

Maybe that was bad to say... The orderly tightened his grip and now the guards are moving in. I know I'm a psychopath, but they're acting likely they already know for sure! Pricks, I don't want to deal with this now. I wanna know if Rem's gonna live, die, or whatever. The suspense is killing me! Now, you cop wannabes, rack off and stay clear. Pyro's a _real bad _person to tick off!

There are people telling me to calm down again. Apparently I'm a lot more worked up than I realized, and I look it. This time, I don't want to calm down. I've got a good reason, it's enough distraction from the red, and that's a good place for me mind to be. Fools they are for wanting to change it.

"Sir! Restrain yourself!"

The current language I'm utilizing, some real classy stuff, is a bit too colorful to repeat. And restrain myself? Someone already took care of that. So much for professional, these people are blind!

I'm pissin' the staff off, and they're returning the favor. You just _know_ that this would end in me torching half the building, but Russian to the rescue to diffuse the situation. He didn't need a word to do it, as he did something amazingly un-Piotr-like. He shoved both sides of the argument apart, looking anything but empty or confused as he had when I last saw him. He's doing an impression of me now, glaring at all involved. He opens his mouth, ready to start forcing sense into us all like he's known for. I should mention he looked quite confused for a second, before that angry look that rivals mine returned. You see, there are things to distract anyone, no matter how absorbed they are in their anger. Piotr's interruption was one of these things, one of the doctors down the hall, stopped beside a known stretcher, has decided to be real loud in his surprise.

"What the hell is this?! I'm not dealing with some _freak_!!"

It makes you wonder if we've got my rival amongst us, that annoying little X-man that decided to give me frostbite once. Everything grinds to a halt at the yell. Realization comes slowly as we watch the doctor move away from Remy, who's still to my knowledge half-dead. No way. No fuckin' way he just said that! It's illegal! Violates the hippo oath or something! Doc just made himself a new enemy. I'm already at work getting myself loose. I get training again, but I'm going for speed here. I crash one foot down on a white shoe, and slam my famously thick skull backwards into the orderly's jaw. That shows him. I'm free finally! I reach for my lighter, forgetting its lack of power, but a rhythmic pounding draws my attention away. _Thud, thud, thud, thud..._

Size 13 boots clank down the hall, heavy footfalls that sped up, leveled off, then stopped abruptly. Forget my revenge, Doc's being held feet off the floor, between huge fists and a wall. I'm too shocked to do anything. I know that this has affected him too, but Petey's more angered than I ever thought him capable. He could get annoyed, yeah, but this was... It never even occurred to me that he was capable of such emotion. He's going to persuade the Doc easily, and he isn't even metal. I gotta give credit to the guy.

"You are going to help my friend, da?" His voice was loud, it's strange. Doc is terrified, and I can't help but grin for our cause. We'll win him over, I'm sure.

He shook his head in response.

Piotr's beyond angry. Without even batting an eye, Russkie takes on a sheen and armor, and the Doc is held so high that his head is against the ceiling. Go Pete. If this doesn't work, I say kill him.

_"YOU WILL DO IT!"_

One of the nurses ducked behind an orderly, who had already positioned himself behind the guard. The voice boomed down the hallway. It shakes everything. We all wait with held breath to see the doctor's response, but he's just as frozen. Piotr takes a step back to that the guy is hanging by his shirt on just one metal fist. He opened his mouth for another command, but that was enough to get the doctor nodding like mad.

Now this part, if the situation were just the slightest bit less dire, would make me crack up for the next hour. With one simple "good" from Pete, the doctor gets to go from ceiling to floor the hard way. _THUD!_

As the doctor scurried with a fleet of other medics taking the stretcher further away, Piotr follows, a great metal sentinel guarding our fallen comrade. I'm not gonna make him go alone against those sods! I produce my lighter finally and spark one last feeble flame, a struggle that I glared at until I pulled it off. I almost immediately take control, making it jump to my free, red hand. If these people don't do real good, they've got both of us to contend with. Even the biggest orderlies and the armed guards part to leave me a wide path as I make the fire dance with no known source.

These people are gonna know for sure that the Acolytes are not a team to mess around with. We've got enough power between us that we don't even need Mags. We can do all the damage we want, and no one would try and touch us. We are a strong team, and we watch out for each other more than anyone would ever give us credit for. I don't care what kind of standoff we end up in here; we won't leave without one Cajun, good as new.

**To Be Continued…**

Special Thanks To:

Snitter in Rivendell- This was not exactly pronto… Yay for CO though.

DarkEnglishRose- Ah, the wonders of fangirls.

Etwa- Did I beat you for time between updates?

Jukebox- I'm soooooooo sorry.

Dragon Master Lytore

Anon- Gracias.

Taineyah

Personage- Baa

DemonRogue13

Alesca munroe- Any time.

Cat- reviews always equal happy

Impulsive Thoughts- Damn, this fic is rich

Schizomaniax- neat name, and I did notice the weirdness with John between movies.

Dark Angel60- I think I emailed you on that…

MorriganFearn- There's more yet!

Minion- Maybe… And was that you who prompted me in one of snitter's reviews? I still haven't thought up an ending.

De-Femme-Merci! I'm on another fav list!

Pyrobabe- here you go.


End file.
